Perfect: DPOV
by Lauren94
Summary: The title says it all. Parts of my story Perfect -AU/AH -from Derek's POV. If you haven't read it, you can still follow without a problem. R&R is appreciated :
1. Chapter 1

Ok, this is the beginning of _Perfect_ in Derek's point of vue. I was on the fence about doing this, but you guys gave me the push I needed to make up my mind. I don't know if I'm going to do the _whole _story (Perfect) in his POV, I might do only three shots. It depends on feedback and my schedule. Enjoy :)

_Meeting_

"Derek, do you have a minute," Williams called as I was about to leave the classroom. I walked back to his desk reluctantly. I had handed in the work he had given me early and there was something in his tone that made me wary. I couldn't help but think that this wasn't about the chaos theory—which, as I had logically argued earlier, seemed like complete bullshit and was an astounding contradiction.

He looked up at me and, besides a little hesitance, I saw no fear in his eyes, no reproach or disgust.

Registering the dubious curiosity in my eyes, he asked, "You're lacking in community service hours, correct?"

"Yeah," I said carefully, inquisitiveness traitorously eliminating all feelings of caution.

"I have a proposition for you then," he said, smiling now and looking victorious.

I said nothing and he continued quickly, "I have a student in grade eleven and she's really struggling with the material," he said, passing me a pack of what I assumed to be the girl in question's tests. "I get together with her once a week after school and while the extra lessons seem to help a bit, it hasn't made that big of a difference. But she tries hard and I know she works on it at home. I believe that it's my approach that she can't grasp. But I also believe that you, Derek, just may be exactly what she needs."

He paused before adding on, "If you tutor her, I'll give you all the hours you need."

He looked at me steadily and waited.

I _needed _those hours. But I also didn't want to spend an hour a week with some stupid cheerleader who didn't understand not because she couldn't grasp Williams' approach, but because she lacked the mental capacity to comprehend in the first place. I had enough of people like that during the day. I didn't want to willingly subject myself to more aggravation during what was supposed to be time I could escape from it all. But the _hours…_

Almost as if reading my mind, he said, "She's not bad, Derek. I think she deserves a chance." He said this last part quietly, letting the meaning behind it speak volumes. I had never pegged him as manipulative, but boy was he good.

I looked down at the tests in my hand unenthusiastically and riffled through them. This girl really was bad at math. Looking back up at him, I sighed and asked, "When do you want me to start?"

He did a commendable job of keeping the twitching of his lips almost imperceptible and said, "Can you be here after school?"

I nodded and turned to leave, heading for the library and trying not to think too much about what was to come.

Sitting in the classroom, I could feel my impatience begin to grow. Even though I didn't have a right to be intolerant—I _was _early—I couldn't help it. It just seemed like something one of _them _would do—mosey on in whenever it was convenient, in complete disregard to anyone else because, as they so ardently believed, who was more important than them?

I heard the door creak slightly as whoever this inconvenience was walked in and I looked up, _slightly_ interested as to who it could be.

Chloe Saunders stood in the door, seemingly frozen place, staring at me with wide eyes. I attempted to control my surprise and looked back at her. She appeared simultaneously curious, shocked, intimidated—how unanticipated— and… amused? Having apparently made a silent decision, she walked towards me slowly, almost nervously, and set her books on the desk between us, sliding into the seat across from me. She was so tiny and unassuming, the last person I expected to walk into this room.

Taking a deep breath, she said, "H-Hi. I'm—"

I cut her off and said, "I know who you are, Chloe. And I'm assuming you know who I am?" Our school was pretty big, so I'd be able to understand her intent to introduce herself if she hadn't been in my English class. Did she think I was oblivious and unobservant?

She stared at me with narrowed eyes, apparently having taken offense at my tone, so I sighed and asked, "What's your problem?"

"Excuse me," she spluttered disbelievingly. It appeared that I needed to work on my communication skills because in the two minutes since she had sat down, she had only misinterpreted me. I motioned to the book in front of her and understanding dawned on her features.

"Haven't you talked to Mr. Williams," she questioned.

"Yes."

"Then I assume you know what the problem is," she said with a bit of bite in her tone, sounding dry and slightly sarcastic.

My eyes snapped to hers and her chin seemed to jut out almost infinitesimally in defiance. I was surprised, to say the least. Who knew that little Chloe Saunders wasn't as timid as she seemed, that she had it in her to put someone, least of all _me, _in their place? Slowly, the boldness in her gaze began to lessen, but the intent did not. She continued to stare at me, into my eyes, all the while losing presence, as if no longer fully _here. _

Her gaze me oddly uncomfortable for it was simple curiousness I saw, no traces of anything else. _Why _was she staring at me? Dangling a pencil in front of her face, thoroughly annoyed, she snapped back to reality.

"Can we start? Or would like a couple more minutes to stare into space and waste our time?"

She opened her mouth in what I assumed was protest, but I continued on, ignoring her.

"How do you feel about math," I asked

"What do you mean?" she snapped, sounding irritated.

"I _mean_ do you like it? Do you hate it?" God, was I _that _incomprehensible?

"I despise it."

She said it so fervently, I took a moment to reorganize my disrupted thoughts, surprised not only by the unexpected yet simple intensity, but also by the statement. Who could hate math _that _much?

"That's your problem," I said finally, knowing how I could help her.

She looked at me questioningly and I sighed before explaining."You're failing because you don't understand. You don't understand because you're not properly grasping the concepts and material. Not understanding leads you to feel frustrated and defeated. And those feelings lead you to become so closed-minded that, because you're so unwilling to try and look at math positively, you yourself become a restriction, disabling any chance of comprehension."

"I try," she objected indignantly.

"You need to try harder." It was true. Half her problem was that she was giving up, not even trying because she approached it with the wrong mindset. "And we need to find a method that works so you don't feel so desolate about trying. You need to be dedicated and I need to know that you're going to try, or no deal."

She _wasn't _a cheerleader. I realized, with some astonishment, that, literal sense of the word aside, I didn't know _who _she was. Chloe was quiet and I didn't see her around school besides in our shared English hour. She sat in the middle of the classroom at the back—always at the back—and was constantly bent over, doing her work or writing something. She was obviously intelligent if her advanced English placement was any indication, but again, besides these unimportant tidbits of information, I knew nothing about her. Pushing away the inexplicable frustration I felt at this fact, I focused on the problem at hand. I was willing to help her, but I nonetheless didn't want to waste my time. I needed to know she would be committed.

After having mulled over my words, she finally said, "I may not understand the first time."

It was a warning, but it was fruitless. I didn't care and I didn't expect otherwise. If she understood the first time, she wouldn't need to be tutored in the first place.

"Ok. Where are we starting," she asked.

I flipped through the book, going all the way back to chapter one and pointed to a definition. She really was _that_ bad at math. She seemed to hold in a sigh and looked down in resignation, her blond hair falling down around her, hiding her face from view.

I pushed away the naturally curious part of my nature that now wanted to find out more about her and focused on mentally trying to prepare a schedule, to organize a lesson plan and focus on things that actually made sense.

* * *

Walking through the front door, I couldn't wait to just grab a snack and relax, any semblance of the latter having been impossible during the drive home. I had been assaulted by thoughts of Chloe and as much as I told myself, as I _knew_, that they weren't important and that it was irrational for me to be simply thinking of her, all attempts to push my thoughts aside were futile. And it wasn't even as if I was thinking abut important things, like creating an apt regimen that would help her to the fullest or figuring how much we needed to cover in what amount of time _or even_ what grades she'd need in the future to sufficiently improve her final mark.

No, I was thinking about things that I couldn't even properly justify, like how she softly chewed on her lip when she concentrated, how a slight crease in her brow would appear whenever she couldn't understand after I'd already explained, how she muttered things so fiercely about her disdain for math that I was always a little surprise because it was such a contradiction to the conception I had formed of her, or how I had never noticed her eyes were such an interesting shade of blue it was—

"How was tutoring," asked dad curiously, thankfully interrupting my thoughts as I walked into the kitchen, having apparently already been brought up to speed by Simon, who was sitting across from him at the island and had to grab a ride home from someone else today.

I shrugged and opened the refrigerator, riffling through its contents.

"Did something happened," he asked, sounding oddly worried now.

I turned to face him, perplexed. "No. Why would you think that?"

"Uh, because you seem like you're in an exceptionally bad mood," Simon volunteered, sounding as if he were pointing out the obvious.

I rolled my eyes and said, "I'm just tired." It wasn't true, but I didn't particularly want to share _why _I was in a bad mood—which was because I felt like I was going insane all because of the little blonde girl who sat across from me for an hour and who, before, had been just another person in the crowd of conformity that was our school. But now, now I couldn't stop wondering.

"Who're you tutoring," Simon asked eagerly, my mood forgotten and his mind already interested in something newer.

"Some girl,"

"What grade is she in," he asked, not skipping a beat.

"Eleven."

Dad looked between the two of us before getting up and grabbing his coffee.

"This is probably going to take a while," he said, throwing a pointed look my way that I ignored. "Update me later," he said to Simon before leaving the room and most likely heading for his office.

"Do I know her?"

Simon used to get annoyed at how I, quote on quote, "intentionally held back vital information." He still does sometimes, but it's become a sort of joyful game for him. He'd try to acquire the information he needed by asking the right questions.

"Probably," I muttered, shrugging. Simon knew _everybody_. While he was athletic, he was artsy, too, which enabled him to break through the carefully crafted social mold of high school and in turn helped him bounce around from crowd to crowd without meeting much, if any, hostility. Not to mention that he had the personality to pull it off—Simon was Simon and you had to like him, you couldn't help it.

He sighed, irritation surfacing.

"What's her name," he asked finally.

"Chloe Saunders," I said, trying to keep the grudging tone from my voice.

His eyebrows knitted together quizzically, as if going through the inexhaustible list of people he knew.

"I've never heard of her," he said slowly, like he was surprised by the fact.

I shrugged and sat down, prepared to enjoy the sandwich I had made. But he interrupted my quest for comfort and asked, "Well?"

"Well what?" I didn't want to talk about Chloe anymore. I had thought about her far too much in the past hour and a half. Enough was enough.

"What does she look like?"

"Blonde, blue eyes, short," I replied simply, hoping he'd be dissuaded by my conciseness.

"Wow," he said sarcastically. "Are you tutoring a third of the eleventh grade female population?"

"She's pretty," I snapped, exasperation pulling it from me. I mean she was, but still—was he trying to _shove_ me into an institute?

"Can I eat now," I asked, glaring at him.

"One more question." He ignored my readied protest and continued, "How pretty?"

"How pretty is who," Tori demanded, strutting into the kitchen. Never in the five years that Tori had been my—my sister had I'd been so happy to see her. Happy may be a bit of a stretch though. Relieved at her presence is more fitting.

"The girl Derek's tutoring," Simon answered.

Snorting sardonically, Tori said, "How could I forget? You're interested in anything with boobs that moves."

I ignored Tori's obsceneness and Simon's equally insulting retort. For once thankful for their dependable bickering, I took my plate and headed to my room where I would do nothing and think of nothing but my chemistry homework and the quantum theory.

**Comments, questions, feedback? R&R please... you know you want to :)**


	2. Chapter 2

I will not bore you all with explanations on why my update was so slow to come. I will apologize however and I will warn you that updates will probably be weekly as opposed to my modus operandi of daily :p I've decided to do the whole story from Derek's POV because I think I'll be able to explore the dynamic between him and his family even further _and _I think it'll be interesting to write Derek as a normal person without the supernatural side to it. This story will most likely follow the same timeline as the original, which is why I ended this chapter where I did. BUT I am already working on the next and will hopefully *crossed finger* be done tonight or tomorrow and be able to update again sooner than expected.

Thank you readers and reviewers because you keep me going :) End of blathering now. Here's chapter 2 :p

**T**he next two weeks passed by as similarly and as tediously as all the other school weeks in the year, _years _even. Football was fun enough—perhaps distracting enough is more apt—but I had to play with some of the most ignorant and self-important people to have ever walked this earth, which significantly lessened the enjoyableness of the experience. And it wasn't as if homework could be considered a diversion either, because frankly, I hardly had any, usually finishing it at lunch.

At first, I hadn't known what—_who_—I had needed a distraction from, why I suddenly felt restless and unsettled unless my mind was utterly occupied. It was when I caught her looking at me—frequently, might I add—that I couldn't push it away any longer.

Chloe Saunders had become the bane of my existence. After our first hour together, I had begun to see her _everywhere_. In the halls, I could pick out her light, almost strawberry, blonde hair from the crowd, differentiate it from the sea of overly-processed imposters; in English, she was the first thing I noticed when I walked into the room; and perhaps most maddening of all, was the fact that she looked at me, _stared _at me, it seemed, whenever she thought she could get away with it. There was never any fear or judgment in her gaze either; it was simply unadulterated curiosity, almost innocent, like she was trying to figure something out.

If I were lying to myself, I'd say that it was then, _after _noticing her looking at me from afar, that I began to wonder about her. But that was only valid if I were lying to myself. If I were being honest though, I'd grudgingly have to admit that my curiosity had blossomed after our first meeting, that I had infuriatingly began to watch _her _when I could. Observing her however, only contributed to my frustration.

Chloe was quiet; even with her friends, she seemed comfortable with taking the back seat, mostly smiling and laughing along as opposed to directing conversation. And when she was by herself, walking down the halls or seated in class, she seemed to draw into herself, as if trying to blend in and remain unnoticed. Aside from easily being able to deduce that she was either self-conscious or hiding something—it was always the quiet ones you had to watch out for—she remained a mystery. I didn't know about her, I couldn't figure her out, which was an unusual occurrence, for, at least the people I had been surrounded with for so long, were like rubiks cubes—once you knew the pattern, you could solve any one.

Now, looking down at her bent head as she studiously attempted to work out a problem that I had already identified a mistake in, my curiosity was reaching an unhealthy level. Why was she so quiet? Why did she stare at me so often? And how could she do so without malice? Why did she look so damn curious instead?

Her head snapped up unexpectedly, taking me slightly off guard, as she slid her paper towards me, looking quite proud. Glancing down at it, I made a five negative and in turn, drew in another negative in front of her otherwise right answer.

Her brows knit together in frustration and her blue eyes were brimming with annoyance.

"Not bad," I said. And it wasn't—I could already see an improvement from the first week.

She snorted quietly and stared at me with narrowed, challenging eyes, falling back into her chair, crossing her arms and pursing her lips gently.

It was altogether disconcerting for some reason and I suddenly felt dehydrated, throat going dry. Looking for anywhere else to set my eyes upon, I settled on my watch, which surprisingly indicated that the hour was up. Making as limited eye contact as possible, I grunted, "See you next week," even though I knew I'd see her tomorrow and even worse, wanted to ask whether or not I'd see her at the game. Did she like football? I doubted it—it wasn't fun to watch unless you were committed. Did she hate it and chose instead to stay home? Or did she go to support the school? I didn't know because I had never noticed her before, which seemed odd in retrospect, that she had slipped by me when now she seemed to be all I could actively take notice of.

"Are you going to the game," she asked quickly. Her eyes widened fractionally, as if surprised by her sudden question.

I regarded her levelly before answering. I was positive she knew I was on the team. As sad as it was, it was also unfortunately true. You'd have to be blind, deaf and living under a rock not to know who was on the worshipped team.

"I'm on the team. I kind of have to be there."

Her cheeks slowly flamed and she looked down, rapidly gathering her things. She got up, still avoiding eye contact and apparently so embarrassed, unable to even manage a goodbye. As she turned to leave though, what self-possession I had been grasping onto crumbled, the words that came out of my mouth un-thought of, almost impulsive. They were uncontrollable.

"Are you," I asked, hoping she couldn't see just how curious I was about her answer.

Her eyes met mine—finally—for a moment before she answered. "Yeah," she said quietly. She nodded and left, leaving me in the study room feeling strangely relieved.

* * *

I was on the couch, reading a new study about a protein that had recently been discovered and was believed to be connected to chromosomal conditions, when Simon ambled over to me from the kitchen, snatching the paper out of my hands.

I looked at him questioningly, registering his devilish grin.

"I saw Chloe today," he announced, still grinning.

I immediately tensed and it took all I had to remain stretched out on the couch when what I wanted to do was stand up to my full height and ask him to repeat himself.

"So," I asked, aiming for disinterest.

"You were right. She is really pretty."

This annoyed me. Simon had a reputation and I didn't want Chloe to be another one of his conquests. She was too good for that. Not for Simon—he truly was one of the good guys—but for the situation as a whole.

I shrugged, deciding that unresponsiveness would probably be the most beneficial.

"Is she—"

"I have to go," I interrupted before he could finish asking what was sure to be a question that would only make me more tightly wound. If the words 'Is she single,' had left his mouth, I don't know what I would have done, how I could have responded without sounding unaccountably defensive. I was up and out the door before he could respond, only pausing to grab my keys and my stuff—so what if I was a little early? It seemed better than the alternative. Plus, I didn't even know whether or not she was single—I hardly knew her at all. She could be in a committed relationship for all I knew. The sudden tightening of my hands around the steering wheel was chalked up to frustration over the past two weeks and at my irrationality as I continued to drive.

* * *

The locker room after a game was always an unfortunate place to be, whether we had lost or won. There were copious amounts of yelling; the shrill sound of lockers banging shut; the coach's loud voice booming either in excitement or vexation; and the annoying snippet of yelled conversations between teammates—altogether a very unpleasant environment, which is why I tried my best to get in and out as fast as possible.

Pulling my sweater over my head and grabbing my bag, I managed not to break stride as I left. I had just played the game, I had just lived it; I didn't need to—nor did I want to—go over the minutes once again in agonizing detail with people who had no filtration system and said whatever the hell came to mind.

The cool air that hit me was a relief; it seemed to clear my head and help me relax. Looking around, I noticed that the field was practically deserted, only a few parents or whoever else standing small and dispersed on the bleachers, waiting.

As I crossed into the parking lot, the night seemed to grow still around me, almost as if it were closing in on me, creating an odd, ominous feeling. Compelled by some unknown force, I picked up my pace, and as I turned a corner to get to the second extension of the lot, I stopped sharply to register the scene in front of me.

Chloe—I could tell it was her by her small frame and her hair—was walking rapidly, almost jogging, head bent against the wind. Four guys were following her. _Four. _And their intent was clear, distressingly clear, by the way they held themselves, in the way their gazes never seemed to stray from her.

"Chloe," I called, only taking a second to process the situation before reacting without thought.

Her head snapped around, eyes locking on me, seemingly ignorant of the distance, and looking so relieved she sagged a little with the feeling. I jogged towards her, paying no attention to the sick assholes that had been stalking her. A quick assessment when I had first spotted them enabled me to come to the secure conclusion that I could take them if it came to that. What surprised me was my readiness to stand between them and her, without question and without guilt.

As I slowed to a walk and they got a better look at me—six feet five inches of natural broadness and sturdiness that came with football—they seemed to come to the smart decision that it would be in their best interest to walk away.

As soon as Chloe was within hearing range, I let the question that had been eating away at the back of my mind free, not realizing until the words were out _just_ how mad I was at her, at how she had handled the situation she was in.

"What the fuck," I asked, voice low.

**R&R *imagine sweet, glowing smile* thank you :)**


	3. Chapter 3

A promise is a promise, and I owe the wonderful readers and reviewers an update. This will be an odd occurrence-a quick update, that is-but I miraculously had a limited amount of homework this weekend. To the aforementioned readers and reviewers, I think it's safe to say you're some of my favorite people :)

**W**as she insane? Or just pitifully ignorant? I _knew_ that she knew she was being followed—I could tell by the way she had been carrying herself. She knew and yet she acted as she did. I honestly thought she was smarter than that. She should have turned right around when she saw them, surrounded herself with people immediately. Had she thought she'd be able to outrun them? Even if there had only been one, it would have been an impossibility; Chloe was five feet nothing and max a hundred pounds. With four of them, she may as well have strutted over to them and begged for trouble.

Her relief dissipated and puzzlement took over. Brow furrowed, she opened her mouth, but I cut her off angrily. "Were you aware that you were being followed," I demanded, giving her the chance to contradict my assumptions.

"Yes."

She sounded so infuriatingly calm that I wanted to shake her. Was she masochistic? Did she have no sense of self-preservation? "But—" She attempted to continue—apparently taking notice of my incredulousness—before I stopped her once again.

"You were aware that you were being followed and _you didn't try to find help_." Again, I wanted to make sure things were clear, that we were on the same page, that in my panic, I hadn't misinterpreted anything. Her eyes said it all and I pushed away my all-consuming disbelief to focus on more important things—like making sure she properly understood what had happened—ignoring once again the opening of her mouth.

"Do you want to be a victim," I inquired hotly. "Why don't you wear a sign that says 'Easy Target' or 'Defenseless and Stupid'?"

The thought of her being targeted upset me for reasons I couldn't explain. I wasn't mad _at _her, but at the same time, I didn't know who to be mad at. She hadn't done anything to diffuse the situation after all, so, for the moment, my anger could be justified—it seemed more logical than the absurd worry that was threatening to dominate.

"I'm sorry that you don't approve of how I acted. What do you suggest I could have done? You saw them, all four of them. Was I supposed to turn around and walk back towards the field? Because, if their intentions were what I assume they were, that wouldn't have happened. I don't live far, Derek. I was hoping to make it home," she interjected finally with a hard edge to her voice, as if taking injury to my justifiable words.

"That's naïve," I snapped, growing more irritated at her innocent mentality. "As soon as you saw them, you should have turned right around and gone back to school. You wouldn't have stood a chance against them. And they would have hurt you, Chloe. Believe me, they would have hurt you."

This fact had my heart beating hollowly against my ribs, the sound ringing in my ears. The truth that she had been so close to being victimized thoroughly alarmed me, oddly made me want to have her in sight at all times, just to make sure she was safe. The mere thought of those monsters made my fist curl involuntarily at my side.

"So far you've called me stupid and naïve. Would you like to throw any more insults at me? Because if not, I'd really just like to go home." Her voice was still strong, but there was a shakiness to it, as if my words had finally entailed some sort of response.

I didn't say anything—didn't know what to say—so I settled on looking at her. I didn't mean to insult her, didn't mean to make her upset. But I wanted her to understand the gravity of the situation so that she'd make it a point never to be in a similar predicament again, which also provided me with peace of mind. I didn't want anything bad to happen to her, I realized more than a bit startlingly.

Firming up her glare, she spun to leave, but I grabbed her elbow, holding her in place, not wanting to leave things like this—with her mad at me because she didn't know where I was coming from.

"I just want to make sure that you understand that you need to be more careful," I said levelly, hoping that she'd give me the reassurance I seemed to desperately need.

"Why do you even care," she snapped, sounding exasperated.

I dropped my hand and took a moment to consider her words, truly perplexed. I _did _care—more than I wanted to admit—but the problem was that I truly _didn't know why._

She remained silent after I quietly admitted that, staring at the ground. At this point, my anger had evaporated and I was left with worry.

"Are you okay," I asked carefully, hoping for the best—that she wasn't going into shock or that something hadn't happened before I got to her.

She looked up at me and even if I _had_ wanted to hold onto my anger—a better alternative to my anxiety—I wouldn't have been able to. Her eyes conveyed just how relieved she was, how shaken she was. They looked faraway, as if she were reliving the moment, and tumultuous.

Without thought, I stepped closer to her before stopping, finally registering what I had done, what I had intended to do. I wanted to reassure her, tell her that she was fine and safe now. But how could I do that? Hug her? Yeah, because that wouldn't freak her out at all—not to mention I'd probably break her. And I was not a hugger, either. Standing close to her would have to be enough, would have to suffice. Strangely, I felt better, relieved by our proximity, releasing tension I hadn't been aware of. Deciding though, that this night had been rambunctious enough, that I couldn't take much more of things I couldn't explain, I said decisively, "C'mon, I'm walking you home." Perhaps distancing myself from her all the while knowing that she was alright would enable me to organize my unwarranted thoughts.

"Derek, you don't have to. I appreciate the effort, but honestly, I'm fine. Everything's fine now," she protested, voice steady, though it sounded as if she were trying to convince herself rather than me.

It was almost laughable—did she really think I'd let her walk home alone, in the dark, after what had just happened? I brushed past her and after a moment, I heard a quiet sigh as her footsteps brought her closer to me.

After a few minutes of walking in silence, I couldn't help it; I needed to know the reason why she was, in another way, straying from the norm.

"Shouldn't you be at a party or something," I asked. After every game, there was unquestionably a party somewhere held by someone, regardless if the team had won or loss—it was either celebratory or consolatory and the entire school population seemed to flock to them.

"Shouldn't you," she countered, peering up at me.

She had apparently picked up on my lack of social enthusiasm during her days of assessment. I _knew_ she was smart and I had to bite back my smirk at her confidant perception.

We continued on in silence, though she didn't seem to mind and neither did I. Without warning, she stopped and turned, placing herself in front of me.

"This is me," she said.

My eyes flicked to the house and a new wave of curiosity came crashing down. It was darkened—not a light on—and it looked distant, as if it weren't lived in, and empty. There was a definable hollowness about the whole picture, which again, was another incongruity. Chloe seemed like the type of girl who came from one of those secure, warm families. She looked the part, but her house completely contradicted the image.

"Home alone," I asked casually, attempting to veil my unappreciated curiosity.

"My dad's always away on business and my aunt's working late tonight, which is why I'm home and not at her house," she explained.

Her dad was always away on business? Was it because he had to be or was he one of those workaholics? How often did she see him? What was their relationship like? And what about her mom? I hadn't missed the fact that she hadn't mentioned her, so what was the story behind that? While I was dying to know, I absolutely _refused_ to pry—how rude was that?—especially into the life of a girl I barely knew.

I settled for nodding, but as I turned to go, she placed a hand on my arm to stop me.

"Thank you. For everything," she said steadily.

"I wasn't about to let something happen." I don't know what had compelled me to say it, but it was true. Simply thinking about her in harms way made my heart speed up and I had to fight to keep my hands relaxed.

"Still. I really appreciate it," she insisted.

We regarded each other for a few moments and I wasn't sure what to do. It was evident that this was where we were to part ways—one of us just had to say goodbye, offer up an unoriginal 'See you Monday,' and that was it. But I was suddenly unsure of leaving her alone in such an empty house. What if something happened?

"Ok, so I guess I'll see you Monday then," she said, making the decision.

I could have—should have—agreed, but my eyes strayed once again over to the house, the house she'd be alone in.

"I'm okay," she said quietly, soothingly, as if to reassure me. She even genuinely looked it—okay, that is.

"You're okay," I repeated, nodding to myself and finally believing it. She _was _okay, perfectly fine, so I had nothing to worry about. There was nothing I _should _be worrying about.

She looked at me evenly once more before turning and walking up the drive, pausing to unlock the door before closing it firmly behind her. I could not pry my feet away from their spot on the sidewalk until I saw the door close, until I had the final assurance that she was safe.

* * *

Walking in the house, I unsurprisingly headed straight for the kitchen. The walk back to school and the drive home had been unsettling, filled with questions, so I finally reconciled on thinking about what I _did _know—which, disappointingly, wasn't much—and nothing else.

Dad was in there, sitting on a stool with his laptop open and his coffee within arms reach.

"You're home late," he stated, sounding surprised.

This was untrue; it was ten fifteen and I was the first to be home—Simon and Tori were still out, doing God knows what. Usually home at nine thirty though, it was in fact, late for me.

I shrugged, hoping he'd drop it, and opened the fridge, digging through its contents.

"Where were you," he asked with barely veiled interest.

This was a precarious situation and my answer had to be carefully crafted. I couldn't say that I'd been talking to coach Parker because—as everything else goes at our illogical school— whether we won or lost, he, along with a few other teachers who had no concept of the word 'appropriate,' went out and, in lack of better terms, got smashed. It was pathetic, but it was true. And I couldn't—

"Derek," he said, voice compelling me to turn around. Apparently, I had taken too long to respond, which meant that he knew that I was looking for a way out of explaining and which also meant that I _had _to explain the reason for my tardiness for he was now alert, completely focused on me.

I looked him in the eye and his expression said it all—'_Don't even think about lying_.'

Sighing, I turned back around, saying, "I walked Chloe home."

I heard nothing for a few moments and slowly, turned once again to face him. He was looking at me as if I had grown another head, like he was debating on whether or not to ask me to repeat myself.

Finally, he regained equanimity and he focused on me. "Oh," he said lamely. "That—that's nice."

I gave a sort of half-nod and reached over to put a container of pasta in the microwave, willing the minute and a half to go by more quickly.

"How's tutoring going," he asked, tone firmer than it had been.

"Fine." I wanted to roll my eyes—_this _was how he was going to broach the topic?

We fell into silence once again, the whizzing of the microwave serving as the only punctuation to the quiet. Before it had time to beep, I grabbed the bowl and a fork from a nearby drawer, hoping to escape anywhere that wasn't here.

"Der," he called, beckoning me back when I thought I was home free, almost at the patio doors.

I looked back at him warily as he asked, "Well?"

This confused me. Had he asked a question I hadn't heard? Was he not satisfied by the 'fine' I had provided him with?

"'Well,' what?"

"Is she pretty," he asked, not even having the decency to hide his mischievous smile—it was times like these that gave me a clear picture of Simon in about twenty five years.

I glared at him and his smile seemed to grow. "What," he asked innocently. "Simon said she was pretty. I was just wondering if it was true."

"Simon says a lot of things," I snapped before spearing a noodle and walking away and out onto the patio, closing the door on his chuckling.

I was _not _going to go _there. _I was _not _going to think about Chloe's attractiveness. Instead, I would focus on Simon. And how I would make him pay.

**R&R please :)**


	4. Chapter 4

A week seems like a long time compared to my usual updating schedule and if I manage to get chores and homework (most of it) done today, I'll try getting a head start on the next chapter.

To the readers and reviewers: You're fantastic, and while I'm pretty sure you already knew that, I wanted to remind you :)

**W**alking down the hall Monday morning, I tried to push away the irrational anxiety, as I had done all weekend, though it was futile. In the past two days, whenever my mind had time to wander—which was regrettably frequently—my thoughts went immediately to Chloe, and I couldn't help but worry about her, about her safety and general well-being—I had even gotten to a point of being so absurd that I intensely disliked the fact that I had absolutely had no way of reaching her. It wasn't until I turned a corner and saw her blonde hair and small frame that my worry subsided, that I was able to breathe properly again after what felt like two days of intense anxiety. Aside from looking slightly tired, she appeared to be fine. Fine and extremely disinterested.

Opening my line of vision, I saw that there was a boy leaning against the locker beside hers, talking animatedly, completely ignorant of the fact that Chloe was obviously not listening.

He liked her, _liked _her liked her—I could see it. The abruptness of the thought surprised me, though what surprised me even more was the fact that I just as suddenly did _not _like him.

While it would have been more rational to just continue walking, leaving them be, it hadn't been my original intention. I had wanted—_still _wanted—to check up on Chloe, and I intended to do that. I also wanted to interrupt their one sided discussion, and the possibility of doing so was too tantalizing to pass up.

His eyes—whoever he was—met mine for a second and I recognized the familiar disdain and judgment, barely even consciously registered it. As opposed to returning the narrowed gaze he had shot me, my eyes slid to Chloe and focused on her. I could feel his eyes still on me, certain that he was now glaring, but I ignored him. Chloe turned around then, and when she registered that it was me standing in front of her, her eyes widened in surprise. After moment, she spoke.

"Hi," she said, sounding as if she didn't quite believe that I was standing in front of her.

"Hey," I said back gruffly. Her friend's unabashed staring was beginning to irritate me.

She looked at me with her big blue eyes, gaze filled with questions. Obviously she wanted to know why I had approached her, but this guy was also obviously _very _curious, and who was I to assume that she had told him about Friday night's altercation? That she even wanted anyone else to know?

I shot her friend a look, hoping to convey that this was a _private conversation, _but he simply met my gaze defiantly. I internally scoffed at his inflated courage that was brought on by the fact that he clearly thought I was threat to his quest for Chloe.

"Are you o-" I wanted to know—_needed _to know if she was alright. But I also couldn't bring myself to ask her in front of this oblivious, jealous bother. It seemed wrong. Shooting him one last annoyed glared, I continued, saying the first thing that came to mind. "Are you free today after school?"

"Yes. Why," she asked. While her answer came without hesitation, I could still see the confusion in her eyes. Unlike her comrade, Chloe was perceptive enough to know that that hadn't been my original question.

"Can we do today instead of tomorrow? In the library? I have some football thing and wouldn't be able to make it." It was such bullshit, but I couldn't think of anything else. Liam was having another one of his 'get-togerthers' tomorrow and I'd honestly prefer to be anywhere else on this earth than at his hours. But Chloe didn't know that.

"For sure. So I guess I'll see you then," she said, sounding slightly disappointed. What reasons could she have for sounding like that?

I nodded, shot the petulant child beside her a final look, and turned to go. Without thought however, I called, "Yeah, see you then," over my shoulder, wanting to assert my relationship with her in front of him for some reason—not to mention that I quite enjoyed the look of jealousy that had established dominance over his features. It wasn't until later that I realized, strangely disappointed, that he had nothing to be jealous about.

* * *

Walking into the library, I quickly scanned the room for Chloe but couldn't find her. Depositing my bag on a nearby table—the library was practically unused; nobody would take it—I began to amble through the aisles, thinking that maybe if I started reading more, I wouldn't be so consumed by thoughts of Chloe. I headed for the classics section, assuming that if I needed diverting literature, it should logically be there, and what I saw so comical, I couldn't help but smirk.

Chloe was standing on the second shelf, after having climbed up, I presumed, and was now reaching with all she had for a book that was still out of reach. As funny as it was though, it also worried me, vexed me. What if the shelf fell? And why the hell was she being so irresponsible?

Coming up behind her, I reached for the book easily, causing her to jump a good foot in the air. It was either grab the book or grab Chloe, and you didn't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out which was exponentially more important.

I caught her, bridal style, and looked down at her disapprovingly, only to be met by her firmly shut eyes.

Slowly opening them, she looked up at me and said, a little breathlessly, "God Derek, do you think you could have warned me that you were there?"

"Do you think you're an orangutan," I asked sarcastically. "Honestly, Chloe, when are you going to start being more careful? What if I hadn't been here and you had fallen?" What would she have done then? It was like she had some sign advertising her susceptibility to ludicrous, unsafe situations.

"Oh my God," she exclaimed exasperatedly. "The only reason I fell was because you took me off guard. The shelf is steady. I would have been up and down, no problem," she reasoned, sounding rather proud.

I narrowed my eyes contrarily and she glared back at me. "It was still stu—"

"Don't say stupid," she warned, cutting me off.

"It was," I countered.

She looked at me indignantly and I sighed, relenting. "Safe. That still didn't make it safe." Which was all I really wanted it seemed—for her to be safe.

Her eyes softened, it seemed almost unconsciously, and I opened my mouth, wanting to change the subject, wanting to do _something_ that would expel the sudden dryness in my throat, the increased beating of my heart.

The sound of a clearing throat caught us both off guard and our heads snapped simultaneously towards the end of the aisle, where the librarian stood solidly, glaring at us reproachfully. I swiftly yet carefully set Chloe down, hoping to diffuse at least some of the tension and make the scene seem less inappropriate.

Mrs. Mackenzie hated me. I could see it her eyes, in the looks she gave me whenever I walked in. She, like every other teacher, knew about the accident, and she assumed that I was the definition of a ticking time bomb, on the verge of destroying her library in the blink of an eye. With a final pointed glower to each of us, she turned and marched away.

"What was that about," Chloe asked, as soon as she was out of hearing range. While her perception differentiated her, it was also something to watch out for. She had also seen the darker look saved solely for me.

"I think she's afraid I'm going to steal the books," I said, shrugging.

She barked out a laugh before rapidly throwing her hand over her mouth, eyes widening.

She looked so shocked, so surprised, that I couldn't help but smile. She seemed to, even unconsciously, be able to make me feel normal.

"C'mon," I said. "We need to start working if you're going to pass."

I began heading for the table I had put my things on and it was a few moments before I heard her seemingly hesitant footsteps behind me.

* * *

The heavy library doors thudded shut and Chloe and I looked towards them. There stood Tori, in all her lofty glory, haughtily scanning the room. Spotting us, she walked over and I quickly picked up on her determination, on the victoriousness she seemed to be emanating. Knowing Tori, I had reason to be apprehensive.

Not one to approach a situation delicately, she said, "I need your car keys."

I snorted. "Not going to happen," I said certainly before returning my eyes to the book in front of me.

"Why not?" she demanded.

Without looking up, I said disinterestedly, "Road rage and irresponsibility do not make someone I would trust with my car."

"I'm a great driver!" she snapped. This was untrue. Tori was a terrible driver. She thought she owned the road and drove with the mentality that it was up to other drivers to keep an eye out of her. Not to mention she sounded like a sailor when anyone _dare _honk at her.

Exhaling loudly in frustration and pinching my nose with my thumb and forefinger, I asked, while trying to keep the irritation to a minimum, "What do you want, Tori?"

"Your car."

"And I've already told you it's not going to happen. So, really, you no longer have a reason to be here." Tori knew—_enjoyed _even—pushing my buttons, and now was nor the time or the place to cause a scene.

Eyes flaring up in anger, she said tersely, "Dad said that you have to give it to me. I need to get somewhere."

"I'm sure the mall can wait." She practically lived there—sometimes I wished she did.

Eyes narrowed, her chin jutted out in defiance and she tensely took her phone out of her bag, hitting a key and passing it to me.

I took it and the dial tone barely had time to start when dad picked up.

"Tor," he said, sounding stressed.

"Derek, dad. Why does she need my car," I asked, not in the mood for formality.

I listened as he explained that he needed her to go to his office—forty-five minutes away—to install some new software for his computer and then help him open some file that a client had sent him and that he couldn't open. Unless I wanted to drive her there—which I didn't—I'd have to hand over the keys.

"She'll be careful," he reassured. It wasn't as if I had some nice car—it was black Jeep. But it was _my _car, _my _source of transportation since I was the only one out of Tori, Simon and I that was responsible enough to drive, and I didn't want Tori jeopardizing that.

"That's like saying Simon won't have a girlfriend," I grumbled before hanging up on his chuckling.

Snapping the phone, shut, I reached into my pocket for my keys and dropped them both into her outstretched hand.

"How am I supposed to get home," I questioned.

"Not my problem," she said, unashamedly smug, before turning and leaving us in peace.

After a few minutes of silence, and worrying more about my car and cursing Tori, I realized that she must have made an impression on Chloe, most likely negative. And while it was difficult, I was still grudgingly loyal towards her—she _had _earned it over the years—and I felt that I should vouch for her.

"She's not terrible when you get to know her," I admitted reluctantly. "She-she has her reasons." That was all the explanation Chloe needed and I knew she'd be satisfied—she wasn't one to pry. And it's not like I had the right or the desire to discuss Tori's personal issues, which could mildly be called less than garden variety.

She nodded a bit doubtfully before we fell into silence once again, taking a bit of time for me to realize that I now had no way of getting home.

"Shit," I muttered. Meeting Chloe's curious gaze, I explained, "I still don't know how I'm going to get home."

"I could give you a ride," she suggested, eyes never leaving mine.

Did I want a ride from her? The better, less obviously answerable question was whether or not I could handle a ride from her. Time alone with Chloe in a small space seemed terrifying and exciting at the same time. It threatened to bring us closer together, and I didn't know whether I wanted that or not.

But the pros outweighed the cons, the curiousness trumped the wariness, and I nodded, grabbing her bag—it seemed like the polite thing to do—and headed for the door, holding it open as she passed under me. Ignoring the feeling of her arm gently brushing against my chest, I followed her out.

**R&R please :)**


	5. Chapter 5

I heart my readers and reviewers, simply because you're the best people. Ever :p Thanks for the continued support and encouragement :)

_Changes_

Sitting beside Chloe in her car was an experience so surreal in itself that I couldn't do anything besides attempt to come to terms with the situation. Even if I did want to talk to her—which I oddly did—I didn't know if I'd be able to.

For as long as I can remember—well, as far back as I like to—it's always been Simon and dad who were what I needed, what I got by on. Tori came later on, and as much as she annoyed me, even infuriated me at times, she was still part of the family. And my family was all I needed, all I wanted, and all I was interested in. But now, now I felt myself... _intrigued _by the girl beside me, who couldn't even be categorized as just some girl, but rather someone who seemed to be careening my way time and time again. When you thought about the logistics, our relationship couldn't be more basic or unadorned. I tutored her, she was my pupil; we hardly spoke outside of school, and when we did—whether it was inside the cement block or not—it was mostly about math. As simple as it sounded though, it was anything but. Because if it were, I wouldn't be spending as much time as I did thinking about the situation, about _her._

"So, what football thing do you have tomorrow," she asked, pulling me out of my reverie.

I felt like snorting. There's no way that I'd ever willingly set foot in Liam's house. But she was unaware of the team dynamic and for the moment, there wasn't a problem with that.

"It's stupid. You know the quarterback, Liam Johnson? Well, he has a big house, furnished to the nines and once a month, he gathers the whole team in his screening room to watch football." Just saying it aloud made it sound like the most ridiculous and wasteful way to spend your time.

"Sounds like… fun," she ventured, apparently trying to be optimistic.

This time, I did snort. "It's not. At least, I assume it's not. I've never been and I don't plan on ever going. Liam invites me because we're teammates, not because we're friends. And even if we were, I wouldn't go and waste my time while they sat around, eating cold pizza, getting drunk and yelling at the TV." Normally, the pride and joy that was the football team was difficult to tolerate; inebriated, they were even worse, and remaining in their presence was an admirable feet that I believe only a saint could manage.

"Why did you tell me that you were going, then," she asked curiously, as if she were trying to piece things together. As it did when solving a problem, her brows knit together softly.

I risked a glance her way. Her face was open and she didn't sound as of she felt deceived. She looked as if she genuinely wanted to know why I hadn't told her the truth and that—the truth—she deserved.

"I didn't originally go looking for you this morning with the intention of cancelling. I wanted to see if you were okay. But that guy was with you and I just-I don't know. I didn't want to ask you with him around because I didn't know if he knew or not. So I improvised." By the end of my explanation, I was rubbing the back of my neck in what I could only imagine was sheepishness—at the time, my reasoning hadn't seemed as inane as it did when the words left my mouth.

"Okay," she questioned, referring to my original inquiry of her well being and looking clearly confused.

"About what happened after the game," I explained, somewhat disbelievingly. _What else_ could I _possibly _be alluding to?

"Oh," she said softly.

"Yeah," I replied unnecessarily.

She said nothing and after a minute or two, I grew impatient. Was she _purposefully _not answering my question? Was she _trying_ to drive me insane?

"Well _are_ you okay," I asked finally, cracking. If she wasn't going to volunteer the information, then I'd have to pull it out of her, which was fine by me as long as my question was answered.

"Why wouldn't I be," she countered. How could she be was the better question.

"Some people go into shock. I don't know, Chloe," I said, blowing out a breath of frustration, "like I said, I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I am. I was. Thanks to you," she added quietly after a moment. Our eyes met briefly, hers deep pools of blue, before she turned them back to the road, leaving my head abuzz.

"Who _was _that guy this morning," I asked, surprising myself. I wasn't sure where the question had come from for the words flew out of my mouth, as if on their own accord, giving me no time to consciously think about what I was saying.

"Nate," she replied simply—evasively, to me.

"Wow, thanks. That really answers my question. I mean who is he to you? Because you looked completely uninterested in whatever it was he was saying."

"I was tired," she protested indignantly, before explaining, "He's just a friend. We're working on the script for this year's play together. It's a professional relationship."

I raised my eyebrows, smirking. Was she honestly that naïve? Or was she trying to play it down, too embarrassed to tell me about ass—_Nate's _blatant crush on her.

"What," she demanded.

"Honestly, Chloe," I said, looking over at her, "to you, it may be as simple as that. But trust me, to him, a working relationship is the _last_ thing he wants."

She blushed and looked away. _Bingo, _I thought with a tinge of smugness and satisfaction. She knew and she didn't like it—she was trying to pretend it didn't exist because she'd rather avoid it, and that relieved me for some reason.

"What about you?" she countered defiantly, chin jutting out, "You don't seem particularly enthralled by your friends, especially Liam." So she'd noticed.

"Liam's a tool," I explained ingenuously, jaw set. He was more than tool—he was a dick, a prime example of an asshole. He was cocky, creepy and arrogant. He'd also been on my case ever since I joined the team, always trying to get a rise out of me, and talking about him further would only be a waste of time and end up irritating me. There were better things I could talk to Chloe about—hell, I didn't even need to talk to her. The company seemed to be enough.

"And the others," she prompted.

"Are my teammates. I play football because it increases my chances of getting noticed and getting a scholarship to a good school. On the field, we deal with each other. We work together because we have to. But forgive me if I don't want to spend my spare time with people who have the emotional maturity of five year olds. They're irresponsible, immature and naïve. They function on the belief that because they're popular now, life will always be easy for them. They don't realize that they're going to end up being be forty years old, still trying to regain the splendor of their glory days and probably living vicariously through their children." It may seem callous to have judged them as I had, but it was also the truth. Their vision was tunneled—they couldn't seem to look past anything that wasn't obvious or easy and I couldn't help it if I didn't want to be ignorant.

"That's a bit harsh," she reasoned level-headedly.

"Maybe. But all I'm saying is that I don't see the point of going out of my way to socialize with people that I am most likely never going to see again. I have Simon, my dad and-and Tori too, on a good day. It's enough, for me." It _was _enough for me, I reminded myself. What had happened suddenly that made me feel as if something more maybe wouldn't be so bad, that I might even want it? _Nothing,_ I told myself.

"I can understand that," she murmured, sounding preoccupied.

We lapsed into silence and I looked out the front window pensively, watching as the trees on either side of the street steadily loomed above us before disappearing behind us. What was it—"Chloe! Stop!"

She slammed on the brakes just in time.

Just in time to miss the car that had blasted through the stop sign. The car that would have hit her. Whatever twist of fate or higher power or any other factor that had enabled me to warn her, to see the car coming and the driver's intent and act instantly, I was thankful for it. The thought of what could have happened troubled me, _panicked _me, and I preferred not to think about it for the time being. The important thing was Chloe and making sure she was alright.

Letting out a low oath, I looked over at her. She seemed distant and frozen, as if she were hardly breathing. Her hands were clasping the steering wheel so tightly you would have thought it was her lifeline.

"Chloe," I asked tentatively. Nothing. Not even a blink of an eye. She couldn't even hear me in her haze.

"Chloe," I said, tone firmer, placing a hand on her arm, hoping to bring her back to the present. She looked over at me, eyes meeting mine slowly, and when they did, my own widened in shock. Her eyes were wide and faraway, as if reliving something terrible, and she looked haunted and, and ghostly. I commanded her to pull over and she did, though her movements seemed robotic, as if she were purely relying on muscle memory. She remained unmoving, hands still clutching the steering wheel.

I was starting to worry, anxiety increasing my heart rate. What had happened? She couldn't be hurt, so what had provoked this reaction. Placing my hands over hers, I guided them into her lap—her knuckles had begun to grow what I deemed as unhealthily white.

"Chloe. Chloe, look at me." If she was in shock, then she needed direction, someone calm and collected to snap her out of it.

Her eyes met mine once again and I searched her face, looking for any sign of damage, before settling, looking right at her.

"Are you all right," I asked quietly, deliberately. That was the most important thing.

She nodded her head sharply, taking a moment to do so, and said, "Are you all right? I'm sorry… I-I just... I didn't-" Obviously she was that selfless, trying to take responsibility for something that could never be considered as her fault, concerned for _me,_ even when I was clearly fine.

I shook my head firmly, cutting her off. "That was not your fault, Chloe. You had the right of way. You obeyed the speed limit. You stuck to traffic signs. It should be drivers like him that are taken off the road." She looked dubious, on the fence about listening to me, believing me, so I continued, "Okay? It wasn't your fault, Chloe. It wasn't." She could not blame herself for something she had no control over—there wasn't any logic in it and she didn't deserve the nonsensical guilt. I wouldn't let her.

"Okay," she repeated softly, finally.

She took a moment to collect herself, appearing to shake her head clear of whatever it was that was running through her head. Then she carefully put the car back into park and continued to my house. But she wasn't present—she seemed vacant, as if her body was in the car while her mind was elsewhere. She kept her distant eyes glued to the road, abiding to stop signs and speed limits with perfection.

It was the not knowing that worried me, killed me. Not knowing what had prompted this sudden change in atmosphere, her complete change in attitude. The more she ignored the constant stream of worried glances I threw her way, the more desperate I became—it seemed as if a thick wall was slowly but surely building itself between us as she appeared to be pulling into herself, retreating into whatever memory was haunting her.

She pulled into my driveway and set the car in park, looking over at me—finally—and attempting a smile that was a mere twitch of her lips, though it was clear that there was strenuous effort behind it.

Her whole demeanor perturbed me, worried me beyond explanation. If only I could pull her back—back to reality, back to me—then perhaps things would improve.

Reaching out my hand unconsciously, I intended to—to what? Touch her cheek? Pull her towards me? It was only until I was at the halfway point, fingers a whisper away from the side of her face, that I realized what I was doing and how utterly preposterous it was. Not only was I completely out of line, but it also seemed healthier, _saner_, of me to obliterate this sudden urge to have her close to me before it threatened to take over.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. After all, what could I say when I couldn't even grasp what was going on? Resigning myself to nodding—and making the decision that I would talk to her about the ordeal tomorrow when she had had time to calm down—I got out of the car, looking back a final time before shutting the door and walking into my house.

I was greeted by silence—dad and Tori still at his office, Simon either out or at some form of extracurricular—which was terrible for my mental state. I had nothing to distract me, to keep my mind occupied and expel the anxiety that I could not push away. Trudging up to my room, I set my bag down and looked around, for something, _anything _to do, before aimlessly walking around, restless, attempting, and impressively failing, to keep my mind blank.

Ultimately, after five agonizingly long minutes of unproductive behavior and one too many failed attempts to not think of Chloe, I decided to go for a run.

Running back up to my room with new purpose, I quickly changed, throwing on sweat pants and running shoes and discarding my shirt—while it was nearing the end of October, I still never found myself particularly cold and knowing I'd break out a sweat, it was unnecessary in any case, considering I hated the way the damp material uncomfortably clung to my skin. Shooting down the stairs and out the door, only pausing to lock it with the spare key, I set off with the mentality that the faster I ran, the harder it would be for me to think and at the moment, that was all I could ask for, all that I needed.

* * *

While half an hour was not a long time, at the pace I was going, I was starting to feel the exhaustion that only comes when you've physically tried to push your body to its limits. It wasn't just physical strain though, it was mental too. The run had not helped in my quest to not think of what had happened and what it meant and why Chloe had reacted the way she did; if anything, it made my thoughts spin more and more rapidly.

Coming up the side street that ran parallel to mine, resigned on heading back home, I came up short, literally halting in my tracks, for parked to the side, what couldn't be more than five feet away from me, was Chloe's car, parked with her inside, shoulders sagged and shaking, visibly upset, while she was bent over the steering wheel that she was still clutching with all her might.

My heart seemed to contract at the sight and I walked over to her, trying to regain control of my breathing. Whatever _this _was, it was so much bigger than I thought it had been. However, what I did know with certainty was that I hated seeing Chloe like this—it seemed wrong and cruel and I wanted to stop it before it escalated any more, wanted strangely to reassure her that she wasn't alone.

Taking a deep breath, I knocked on her window, waiting for her eyes to meet mine—taking in the tears and despair that were evident on the surface—before walking around to the passenger side and getting in.

**R&R please and thank you :) (This was an early update after all :p) **


	6. Chapter 6

To the readers and reviewers: I am currently on a quest to invent a word that encompasses your overall greatness :)

_Findings_

She sat there, looking at me with wide, glassy, red-rimmed eyes, her breathing ragged and deep, as if she had gone a while without breathing properly. Her gaze remained shifting, to my eyes, down and back up again, and I waited. Waited for her breathing to return to normal, for her to collect herself. And the minutes I spent waiting were agonizing.

The sight of Chloe crying was not only worrisome—triggering some ingrained, panicked male responsiveness whenever confronted with tears—but also heartbreaking because she looked so sad, so _defeated. _It was altogether wrong, unbearable even, and as uncomfortable as I may feel—not because I didn't want to comfort her, stop the tears in their tracks, but because I didn't know how—I knew that I was the one that needed to pull her from whatever puddle of despair she was in. Who else would? I just hoped I'd know, or at least have some semblance, of what to do, that I didn't say something asinine. It's not like I had any experience with the sort of thing—there had unsurprisingly never been a girl who had taken as much of my time as Chloe had—_does_—and Tori, the only female I had to interact with, wasn't exactly a crier. Tori didn't get upset. She got even.

Finally, breathing almost under control, she looked back up at me, her gaze having had drifted downwards for quite some time, probably in an attempt to put up a front, regain what composure she could and save face.

Her sapphire blue eyes were still filled with anguish and I couldn't take it any longer—I couldn't help her if I didn't know what the problem was.

"Chloe," I asked softly—afraid that any loud sounds or unexpected movement might induce more tears—hoping at least to ground her. And while I wanted to know the reason behind her unraveling, I wasn't about to push her. I realized, hardly with any astonishment now, that I was willing to sit here for hours if I had to.

Taking a deep breath, she said quietly, ""My mom died in a car accident when I was six. It was raining, hard, and my dad was driving. I was in the backseat. The car came out of nowhere and he didn't have time to swerve. He didn't have time to do anything, really. And today… That car that came out of nowhere just reminded me of that night. It-it's stupid, I-I know. But I couldn't help it," she finished, shrugging her shoulders and looking away, trying futilely to slyly wipe away the few tears that had escaped.

This all came out in a rush, as if she thought that the more quickly she said it, the more quickly she'd be able to lock it back away.

She kept her gaze down and I was thankful for I was stunned into silence. Of all the things it could have been, _that _hadn't even crossed my mind.

Her family dynamic now had an explanation, though I felt not one iota of satisfaction of having discovered something else about her because it was not something I wanted to be true, wanted to be a reality for her.

The hollowness of her house suddenly made sense, why she seemingly spent so much time with her aunt and her dad, as she had said, was 'always away on business'—the foundation of her family had been ripped away from her, there one second and gone the next, and her aunt had stepped up to the plate when her father, who I'd bet either didn't know how to cope or didn't know how to raise her, found solace in his work, putting Chloe on the back burner.

Life was unfair, even cruel sometimes. I _knew _that, I had _inflicted_ that. But this seemed excessive, particularly malicious. While nobody deserved that fate, it was made even worse by the fact that it was Chloe, for she was the last person to merit such a thing. She was genuinely a good person and I wondered what justified her having been handed this deal.

I wanted to say something—_anything_, really—but I didn't know what. Sorry? I was sure she'd heard it a thousand times. What difference would it make? Would it even matter? 'I'm sorry,' is such a copout, the two words everyone resorts to in times of sorrow or regret. Half of the time it wasn't even genuine—it was said because that's what you're supposed to say, what was expected of you to feel. And while I _was_ sorry, truly sorry for the fact that she had fallen victim to such an unfair fate, I didn't want her to think I was just another jackass who was saying it because he thought he had to. However, eloquence failing me the one time I needed it, I was forced to settle.

"I'm sorry, Chloe. And I know you've probably heard that before. But..." I trailed off, again at a loss for words. What else could I say? How could I further elaborate when dwelling on the subject was probably the last thing she wanted.

Her eyes met mine, filling with tears once again, though she didn't look quite as desolate. She was still sad, but she also seemed grateful. She steeled herself against them though, letting one lone tear escape before expelling the rest. And with that, with her vulnerable frame and heartbroken eyes laid out in front of me, something inside me, whatever resolve I had left, cracked, and I no longer cared about lines I was worried about crossing or boundaries that risked being broken. I was certain our relationship—our acquaintanceship—hadn't followed a norm, so what was another idiosyncrasy? Chloe needed comfort that words—or at least any words that would come from my mouth—couldn't provide and I was determined to supply her with just that. So, acknowledging both the general risk and the risk to my mental well-being, I reached my hand out towards her, pushing away the inexplicable nervousness I felt at doing so, and took her chin in my hand, using my thumb to wipe away the tear and ignoring how soft her cheek was.

Her eyes were wide, but not afraid or repulsed. She simply looked at me evenly, as if she were waiting to see what I'd do next. Fingers long enough to detect her pulse, I felt her heart rate slow, and I took that as a sign that I was on the right track. I carefully moved my hand from her chin, skipping over her neck, down her shoulders and finally to her back, where it stayed firmly in place. She visibly sagged against the feeling as I could have sworn that I felt the tension leaving her body, enabling her to relax. She seemed to lean into my touch and she turned her body towards me, resting her head against the seat.

"Are you still home alone," I asked seriously. It wasn't as if we could stay in her car, but at the same time, I wouldn't let her go home to nothing. Being alone would probably be the worst possible thing for her, even if it was what she may want. If she were alone though, I was again at a loss for what to do. I couldn't exactly say, 'Well, wherever you're going, I'm going too,' –how creepy would that be—and it wasn't as if I could invite her over—Tori, Simon and dad were sure to be home by now and she didn't need to be made a spectacle of, didn't need the attention Simon was sure to drown her with, or risk falling prey to Tori's unpredictable moods.

"No, I'm going to my aunt's house," she replied softly.

"Do you want me to drive you there," I asked. I wasn't sure she should be driving in the condition she was in—what if something happened to her?

"I'll be fine," she said, declining my offer.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," she said with certainty. I was adamant about letting her out of my sight, worried about what could go wrong and what would or could happen during the car ride to her aunt's house.

"Derek. I'm fine. I will be fine. You just caught me at a weak point. Thank you, really, but I can do this. You don't need to look after me. You've already done enough."

She didn't want to be weak and she didn't want other people to see her that way either. But I didn't think she was feeble or incapable; contrarily, I admired her tenaciousness and resilience. I wasn't prepared to believe the front she was putting up though. After all, 'I'm fine' were the other two words that people always turned to, even when they weren't true.

Seeing my hesitance she narrowed her eyes at me, conceding her point. Rolling my eyes, I nodded my head, letting my hand drop regretfully away. She was determined to have things her way and she wasn't about to give in.

"I'll see you tomorrow," I said, not wanting to directly ask for a confirmation of whether or not I'd e seeing her and wanting to convey that I felt she shouldn't use this as a reason not to come to school-God only knows her absence would spike my anxiety.

"Okay."

Getting out, I paused to look back at her, remembering something she had said early on in the telling of her story.

"It's not stupid, Chloe," I said before shutting the door, wanting her to know that she shouldn't be ashamed about feeling the way she did, especially since she had every right to.

I stayed rooted in place, watching as she drove away until she was out of sight and too far for me to even imagine her trajectory.

* * *

For the rest of the week, I saw Chloe at school and regarded her from afar as had become routine. I wanted to talk to her, wanted to see if she was okay, but I didn't know how to approach things. Would she even appreciate my concern, or would she resent me for dragging it back up to the surface? I didn't know how or if things could or were supposed to go back to the way they had been—it felt as if something had changed between Chloe and I, something I hadn't realized until after it happened.

She had shared something personal with me, had been unhinged in my presence, and it seemed to be something that bound us together. She could never return to being just another girl in my eyes once I was done tutoring her for I was aware of such a big part of her, one that I wouldn't be able to forget. I no longer knew solely small things about her; I knew something important as well, something I couldn't ignore. The change though, the game-changing moment, one that I had realized with some dread though less—if I was being honest—surprise, was that I had grown to care about Chloe during my time wondering about her. Making the realization was odd, practically foreign, and I needed time to process and evaluate it without her clouding my perspective—caring about her could lead to serious complications for myself that I wasn't prepared to make. So, for the rest of the week, I, miraculously, managed to keep my distance, all the while continuing to watch her, this time with renewed curiosity for there was now so much more to consider.

**So this chapter was kind of hard to write-I didn't want Derek sounding redundant about Chloe's mom or too angsty, but I don't know if I skimped a little in an effort to compensate for my worry... R&R is appreciated :)**


	7. Chapter 7

So I think the award for worst author/updater and most unreliable person ever can go to me, right? I am infinitely sorry for the ridiculous delay, but my poor excuse is that school and life got in the way-I won't bore those of you who are still following with the details. This chapter is unedited and unrevised (sorry Al), but once I finished it (just now, at 2:30 in the morning), I knew I had to put it out ASAP. Without further ado, chapter eight and a thanks to the readers who haven't given up on me.

_Realizations_

It was Tuesday and I was sitting across from Chloe in the library, head bent as I drew the corresponding parabola to an equation. I thanked whoever it was in charge of these things that I was good at math, for I paid no conscious thought to what I was doing.

I hadn't had any contact with Chloe since last Monday when I had found her in her car. In the week since, I hadn't suddenly grown socially competent and I still had no idea how to approach things, nor if I wanted to. I wanted to know if she was okay, I maddeningly wanted her to know that I was here for her if she needed me to be, as clichéd and idiotic as that sounded. But being there for her, voluntarily wanting to provide that comfort and support for her, threatened to bring us closer in yet another way, one that I wasn't sure I was ready for or could handle. Throughout the week, every time I had laid eyes on her, I was assaulted by the overwhelming desire to go up to her and draw her near, shielding her from the world's possible cruelty. The desire to be close to her, to have her in sight and know positively that she was all right, that she was safe, was almost tangible and it took all that I had to keep my distance, which was not only necessary, but a precaution. I had yet to figure out why I felt the way I did—I was dealing with emotions I had never felt and had yet to name—and it seemed smarter, safer and saner, to clear up my inner-confusion before going back to Chloe, who I was certain would only make me more confused considering she was the source of such—my confusion, that is.

Looking up, the explanation regarding the drawing ready on my lips fell away as I registered the deathly glower that was gracing her features. Her petite frame was stiff, her chin jutted out in a way that can only be described as quintessentially Chloe, and her eyes narrowed in supreme concentration, as if imagining hard enough would actually produce the daggers she was glaring at me.

"What's wrong," I asked, surprised. She seemed fine when she had walked into the library—what had happened between now and then? What could I have possibly done?

"Nothing," she replied airily.

I regarded her levelly, eyes narrowed slightly in an attempt to pull the justification for her defensiveness from her, but she wouldn't relent. She was hell bent on remaining silent.

"I wouldn't have pegged you as the passive aggressive type," I said finally, hoping this would induce her into talking. Chloe was not passive aggressive, she was even incapable of being so. Everything she felt was clear on her face; being so would be pointless.

"Are you—Look, about last Monday. I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me and I'm sorry you had to be there to witness it," she explained quickly, casting her eyes downwards.

Why was she apologizing? Did she actually think that I _minded _being there for her? Had I somehow given off the impression that I was burdened by her and her confession? Wracking my brain, I couldn't think of anything that could possibly justify her feelings.

Placing my fingers under her chin hesitantly, but needing to see her eyes, I forced her to look at me for she seemed determined to do anything but, and asked, still truly perplexed, "Why are you apologizing?"

"It was just a lot to dump on you so unexpectedly and in such a short amount of time," she said quietly.

Satisfied that she wouldn't look away and realizing that I could no longer justifiably hold onto her chin, I slowly let go, saying, "You have nothing to apologize for." And she didn't; I could hardly fathom the fact that she _was _apologizing.

"I j-just thought… I didn't know w-why…" she trailed off, looking oddly embarrassed, sheepish even. Could she possibly think that I'd been avoiding her, purposefully keeping her at arm's length because I didn't want to feel that emotional responsibility towards her, that commitment? While that was untrue, she didn't know it, couldn't read minds, and the only way I'd find out would be to verbalize it, seeing as she seemed to be having difficulty finishing her sentences. But I couldn't be sure if that's what she wanted to know—we rarely spoke in school. I _did _want to know the reason for her apology though…

Finally, deciding the hell with it, I said slowly, "Chloe, I haven't been ignoring you, if that's what you've been trying to get at."

She physically sagged at my words, looking as if some great tension had left her. She kept quiet though, still looking preoccupied, her brow creasing—I had a feeling she wasn't thinking about math.

"Are you going to be able to focus today," I asked, just to get it over with. There's no point in tutoring her if she isn't actively listening—she won't absorb any of the information. If I can't tutor her today though, that means our time will have to come to an end and I don't want that, don't want her to walk away when I've begun to almost count on what is now her dependable company. Not to mention that if I'm forced to go home, I'll have an extra forty-five minutes to think about her than I normally do… Yeah, as if I need anymore of that to assure myself that I haven't lost my mind completely.

"No," she replied, sounding slightly sheepish and looking apologetic.

"Well then I don't know what to do," I admitted, frustrated not only by the fact that I _didn't know, _but also because I knew what I _wanted _to do—anything, really, as long as it involved her—but didn't know how to approach it, how to evaluate it, because I've never _wanted _to spend time with anyone as badly as I seemed to want to spend time with her.

"We could do something," she suggested hesitantly.

"What do you mean by 'do something,'" I asked, cautiously curious, though I couldn't help but feel wary too.

"I mean something completely unrelated to math," she stated.

My mind began to whir as the implication of her words sank in. Was she suggesting that we _hang out_? On top of not being able to wrap around my head around the fact that she was the one to ask, my initial wariness has now become an overbearing assault on my senses. How would I act with Chloe outside of an academic setting? What would we do? Why did she want to spend time with me in the first place?

Now that the possibility has become a probable reality, to become true with one word from me, I didn't know whether I wanted to accept it, could accept it. Being alone with Chloe in unchartered territory was unplanned for, extremely unanticipated, and I didn't know how to feel about these knew—or lack thereof—limits. Our old ones—pupil and mentor—were comforting for at least I knew where I stood, what our relationship required. Now, with Chloe being something to me I had yet to find a name for—pupil is laughable and I'm beginning to doubt friends spend as much time thinking about one another as I do thinking about her—I had no idea how far these ambiguous boundaries spread, nor if I could handle it.

"That would be very irresponsible. Williams expects me to tutor you, not to go gallivanting through the town," I say, for it's the only defense I can conjure, the only solid argument I have. It's simpler than explaining that while I have mentally jumped at her offer, it is also the last thing I want to do for I don't know where things will lead.

"Don't you ever have any fun," she asked challengingly, eyes narrowing and dancing with amusement.

Call it what you want—pride, infallible male ego, my natural inability to resist a challenge—but it no longer became a question of whether I could accept the risk of accepting her invitation or safely decline. The question all but vanished for I could no longer pass her up. She was presenting me with a challenge and I could already feel myself rising up to face it.

Resting my elbows on the table, I said, "On one condition."

"Name your price," she replied, sounding as if she was suppressing inexplicable elation.

"I'm tutoring you tomorrow and I don't care if you're bored or not. You're sitting through a whole hour of geometry whether you like it or not."

Fighting off the twitching of her lips, she held out her hand. "Deal."

I rolled my eyes at the severity and level of professionalism with which she was handling our negotiation, gently pushing away her hand only to be met by her radiant smile.

"I need to stop somewhere first," I warned, internally amazed that I was able to remember through the haze that she brought on.

"Fine by me," she replied breezily.

* * *

Standing in front of the door to Williams' classroom, Chloe turned to me with narrowed eyes, accusation glinting in their blue depths, and crossed arms. Funnily enough, her demeanor conjured up the image of an angry kitten.

"Nothing math related, remember," she reminded, stressing the latter.

Knocking, I looked down at her. "This'll only take a second."

Williams opened the door moments later, a smile gracing his features as soon as he took us in, with no tightness around his eyes whatsoever.

"Ah, Mr. Souza and Ms. Saunders, what can I do for you?"

"I just need that book you said you got from me," I replied. Having finished fractal geometry earlier than he had planned, my past few math classes have been rather unstructured as he waited for the manual on differential equations to come in.

Leading us into the classroom, he was rifling thought the papers on his desk when he said, rather dispassionately, "I corrected the test you had last week, Chloe."

With those words, my sputtered oddly before restarting more rapidly than before. This was it; the first piece in evidence that would shed light on whether or not our sessions had done any good, or whether I had managed to confuse her even further since I hardly knew at times what was coming out of my mouth—I could only fall back on the fact that I knew math like I knew the back of my hand and that explanations would come without second thought. Mr. Williams had been gracious enough to give me the benefit of the doubt when everyone around him turned up their noses in dismissal, and I was thankful for that; the only way I could see to repay him would be granting him the simple favor of successfully helping someone he wanted to aid.

He handed me my book while also handing Chloe her test face down. She stared at it, unmoving, and the anticipation was quickly getting to me. Anxious to see how she had done and not patient enough to wait God knows how long for her to turn it over, I began to reach for it, though she danced out of my expertly, as if she knew me well enough to know my intentions.

She turned it over and apart from a slight widening of her eyes, there was no other indication of whether what she was seeing was bad or good.

Moving to stand in front of her, I couldn't take it any longer. "Well," I snapped, too stressed to care about my tone.

She looked up at me then, her blue eyes shining with a sort of tender gratitude. Without warning, breaking the moment while setting in motion another, she launched herself at me and my arms seem to automatically wrap around her. Having her there, in my arms, was an altogether odd sensation. She wasn't heavy at all—as previously suspected she weighed practically nothing and if I weren't already so aware of her, I probably wouldn't even realize she was in my arms—but her presence was weighty, as if she simply fit into something, like a puzzle piece I hadn't even known I was missing.

Williams cleared his throat in clear discomfort and I was forced—out of social consideration—to set her down, the moment broken and gone before I had time to process any of it. I took the test out her hand for something to do, as she and he discussed something I tuned out.

An eighty. It was undeniably significant improvement, but she had made some mistakes that could solely be chalked up to inattention. It would be more responsible, safer, to go back to the library and go over her mistakes with her and make her correct them. And while that alternative to our plans was rational and comforting, it seemed to only hold distant appeal for me, an altogether new and startling feeling. As reckless and unknown as our time together would be, I found myself anticipating it with, as contrary as it was, anxious excitement.

* * *

"Where do you want to go," I asked, hands on the wheels and shamefully prepared to give her full control over where we were heading. Though I hoped that it wasn't some place filled with people, likely to judge and stare and taint my time with her, or noise, a self-explanatory distraction. After what seemed like the longest moment to have ever existed, she breathed out, "Just drive," and I had to fight _very_ hard to keep the full-blown, dorky smile from my face.

* * *

The closer we got to town, the more aware of reality I became. The two hours I spent with Chloe—in the parking lot of an abandoned movie theatre; her choice—away from the outside world, completely free to speak and act without being judged or dismissed, were… indescribable. It was an experience I believed words couldn't properly justify, not only because I lacked the vocabulary to begin to properly express their meaning, but also because words threatened to lessen it as well. We talked about everything and nothing, one thing flowing seamlessly into the next as I found myself more willing to talk with her than anybody else—surprising, considering how long it took me to warm up to Simon and dad and how short a time I knew her—and as she complimented my natural inclination to rather listen than waste breath on empty conversation. She surprisingly had a lot to say, once you pulled it out of her.

But the realization, the mind-boggling, startling realization, had sprung up so unexpectedly that, at the moment, I was still reeling from it, even as logic and rationality and truth were rapidly tainting it.

I could be myself with Chloe. She seemed to understand me, even without everything being laid out to her. She relaxed me; calmed me in a way I didn't knew I needed calming. She made me breathe easier and inadvertently release unknown simply by being her. It was crazy and incomprehensible and I wanted more. More than I deserved and more that she would ever be willing to give. For, as we neared closer and closer to town, the bleak truth of the matter hit me. The _more _that I wanted—I couldn't even define what it was exactly—was unattainable and naïve and stupid and illogical to wish for. Because if she knew—knew what I had done, what I was capable of, what I _was—_she would do as everyone else had done. It sounded terrible, judging her so harshly, even though I wasn't. I respected, _appreciated, _how she hadn't judged me so far, ignoring the wary glances people still threw my way, the whispers passed among those who weren't above petty gossip. But how could she not turn away in disgust? It was as simple as that. And even if she _could_—which was practically an impossibility—being with me—not _with me_ with me, but just friends or… or whatever it was that I wanted yet couldn't name—would only manage to damage her. She was too good for the stares and whispers that would follow her if she were to openly associate more of herself with me, too good for me and completely undeserving of that. Not only would I not ask that of her, I never could. It was uninviting and true and I could do nothing about it for the facts were logical and indisputable. Chloe was so pure and so good; it was careless of me to think to want something more of her. Not to mention that I'd never be able to look at her in the eye again if she knew the truth. It was shameful, _terrible_, and I didn't want what decency she associated with me to be torn to pieces, ripped to shreds, if I could help it.

I barely choked out a goodbye when we got back to her car and dragged myself through dinner, ignoring Tori's snide remarks, Simon's curious gaze, and dad's long, worry-filled glances. I was too preoccupied in resigned anger—both at myself and the circumstances—and regret and slight desperation for much else.

The fact was that I had left an innocent kid permanently brain damaged and unable to walk. I had ruined his life, played God without desire or permit. And if Chloe knew… I couldn't even begin to assess the consequences; shied away from doing so because they all involved losing whatever relationship I had with Chloe. And that was something was entirely unprepared for and unwilling to risk.

**Again, thank you to all the readers and reviewers who have been wonderful and stuck by me. I don't know when the next update will be, but know that I'm finishing this story (along with Life Unexpected, for those who are wondering) no matter what or how long. Is it too much to ask for a review? Pretty please with cherries on top? :p Also, check out Alasyn and I on facebook. Type in Alasyn Lauren and all the info is on there :) Thanks guys 3**


	8. Chapter 8

**So, yeah, I'm back and I suck I know. I'm not going to ramble off my list of excuses. In short, life was being life (aka, getting in the way) And I'm sorry to the power of infinity for not updating. Thank you so,so much, everyone who has stuck by this and has continued to read, review, and add alerts to this story. As I've said before, you readers are the ones who keep me writing. Speaking of, let the writing speak for itself and without further ado, chapter 8 :)**

If possible, my mood grew darker as the evening progressed, turning black as the night. Tori remained unsympathetic; dad had resigned himself to letting me be, as did Simon, though only after I had snapped that I was fine—for the fifth time—just tired. A blatant lie, but not only did I not want to involve any of them in the problem I was faced with, even if I did, I couldn't: if the situation in its entirety didn't make sense to me, how would I begin to explain it to them, how could _they _make sense of it?

The problem wasn't Chloe, not so much anymore. I had simply decided to accept that I thought about her slightly more than was probably usual and that was that—I was done trying to explain, and trying to fight, to not do it, proved more difficult than I had thought. So, whatever. She was on my mind rather frequently and that was that. The problem, however, was what Chloe entailed, the implications that came with her friendship and my own contributions. Chloe made me feel, in a nutshell, normal. At ease, comfortable and accepted. I enjoyed her company, liked the sound of her voice, and found myself willing to participate in conversations, either a result of how she made me feel or a natural response to what I could tell was sincere curiosity. It was this curiosity that worried me. As socially inept as I may seem, I knew that for any sort of relationship to work, reciprocity was involved. You couldn't take without giving anything back. I couldn't continue to expect openness from Chloe if I remained unwilling to give a little in return. And the closer we got, the more I could feel the truth trying to claw its way out. My past, what I did, keeping it from her seemed almost deceitful. A part of me wanted her to know, wanted to get it off my chest, lay out on the table, and if she judged me—which she understandably couldn't refrain from—then fine; at least she hadn't done so before she had even gotten to know me.

Another part, a bigger part, a more selfish part—maybe even a smarter part—didn't want to tell her, knew that I couldn't unless I wanted things to change, drastically and for the worse. I couldn't help but feel guilty, knowing that I was purposefully keeping such a big piece of information to myself, keeping her from both properly knowing and judging me, but the selfishness took over: I didn't want anything to change, I didn't want Chloe to go away and I didn't—at time thought I couldn't—want to risk it.

I wasn't dependant on her or anything; she was simply a nice change from Simon and Dad and Tori, and she had sort of snuck up on me and made a lasting impression, one that I wanted to keep present and not something exclusive to memories.

But the guilt came back, succeeded in doing so every time I turned this conflict over in my mind. If I couldn't, or didn't want to, be honest with her, then I shouldn't continue to be friends with her. It was reckless, inconsiderate, and I had a feeling that if I let myself carry on this path that involved Chloe, things would end badly for me.

And thus, my night was one of restlessness as I jumped from resolve to keep things as they were, leaving her in the dark, to guilt for wanting and intending to do so. By the time dawn broke through the heavy night, watery sunlight filling my room, I had probably slept for an hour and, establishing that any rest now would be futile and naïve to hope for, I dragged myself out of bed, intent on going for a quick run, hoping to clear my head, in the least to silence my thoughts.

* * *

Walking into class, my eyes, predictably and like a magnet, searched for Chloe, almost immediately settling on her and meeting her blue orbs.

My run did nothing to settle my inner turmoil; if anything, it strengthened the reality that I either had to put morals and principle aside and continue to hide the truth for her in my own selfish agenda, or make the decision to distance myself, the only fair solution if I couldn't—wouldn't—be honest. Eyes locked with hers, the decision I made went without question as I pushed my guilt aside and made my way over to her, sliding into the seat next to her.

"Morning," she murmured, still looking at me.

"Morning," I replied, clearing my throat—having barely said ten words since yesterday afternoon, my vocal chords had turned stiff.

She continued to look at me, seemingly ignorant of the fact that it was bordering on staring, her eyes soft and faraway. Beside the sentiment, however, there was no other indication as to what she was thinking. Without warning, a light pink began to dust her cheeks and she snapped back to reality, hurriedly zeroing back in on me.

"Tired," she blurted out, meaning it as a question as she looked pointedly at the darkened spots under my eyes.

I shrugged after a moment, slightly puzzled and more than a bit curious as to what she had genuinely been thinking, ready to bet my college savings that it hadn't been my state of fatigue.

* * *

Sitting at our usual table, I was surprised when Chloe walked into the library earlier than usual, looking simultaneously worried and determined.

"You're here ea—"

"Are you mad," she demanded, cutting me off.

"At you? Why would I be mad at you," I asked, searching for clarification and truly perplexed. We hadn't spoken much this morning, but the fact that it was morning was reason enough. And aside form that, we hadn't had any contact for the rest of the day. It wasn't as if I were an irrational person; where would she even get the idea that I was made at her?

"I was talking to Simon and he told me that when you got home yesterday, you seemed upset and-and I was j-just wondering if I had done something…" she trailed off, sounding less confidant and determined as she had in the beginning of her explanation.

As soon as she mentioned Simon, and the fact that she had talked to him, two feelings immediately rose to the surface, each fighting for dominance. The first was a mixture of betrayal and bewilderment; since when did she talk to Simon and why would she talk to my brother about me? Surely her and I had more of a relationship than she had had with him, so why would she feel the need to talk to him rather than to me? The second was less explicable. It was anger, born in the fact that one of the things that sprang to mind when I thought of Simon was that girls adored him, fawned and tripped over him, and that Chloe was definitely his type and he would just as definitely find her cute.

"You were talking to Simon about me? Since when do you talk to Simon?" These were the most important questions. As soon as I had them answered, I could begin to properly from a conclusion about what Simon had said and more importantly, the relationship they had. How long had they been talking? Did Simon have any classes with her? He was always one to verbalize and lament about his ups and down with girls—despite and amidst Tori's protests and insults—so, if anything had happened with Chloe or if he wanted anything to happen with her, he'd surely have mentioned it. At least I hoped.

"I don't talk to Simon," she said quickly.

"Really." To turn that into a question would be asinine. I didn't think it would be possible for me to sound more sarcastic.

Realizing her fallacy, she said, "I wasn't talking about you to Simon," sounding insulted and irritated, which was unexpected and a source of surprise. I didn't know she had it in her to sound so sure and steely. "Simon was in my drama class today—which was the first time we've ever really spoken," she continued, eyes narrowing as if to prove a point. "He was helping with set design. When class ended, he came up to me asking if we had gotten into a fight because he said that when you got home yesterday, you seemed upset. He was concerned and wondered if I had an explanation since we had been together. I didn't—don't—so…" she trailed off, uncertainty taking over and eliminating some of the steam she possessed earlier.

"I'm not mad at you."

"Well, were you upset? Did something happen?" She was fishing; dissatisfied with my answer. It was maddening. It wasn't as if I could explain the situation to her without sounding insane. 'I wasn't mad, Chloe, simply frustrated because you and our relationship have begun to confuse me. I enjoy the time we spend together and don't want to jeopardize it, but in doing so, I'm also lying to you. What about you ask? Well, I'm not going to tell you.' Yeah, that would go over _so _well.

"I was tired when he saw me." That's a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why he may have thought I had been mad.

"The tired excuse, Derek? Really," she asked dubiously. She looked about as believing as she would have had I told her werewolves existed.

"Yes, tired. After I dropped you off, I needed to pick something up for my dad. Coming home, I hit really bad traffic and I hate being in cars." It was always best to remain firm and as close to the truth as possible when concealing the truth from someone—I was not proud that I knew this, but I did and didn't exploit it often.

"You hate being in cars," she asked, this time sounding more quizzical.

My mind jumped to yesterday, where we had spent a couple of hours in a car. It was true; I didn't like being in cars, they made me feel uncomfortably enclosed. Surprisingly enough, I didn't mind being in a car with her. Not wanting to say _that,_ I said instead, "Not in them. I just hate long car rides. And I really hate traffic." Looking at her, I added, "They make me restless," deciding to add one more truth to the explanation, attempting to compensate for this one big lie.

"Okay. Glad we got that cleared up," she said professionally. If she had papers in front of her, I imagine she would have neatly arranged them in front of her.

Reaching for her books, I asked, barely registering the question, "Are you coming tomorrow night?"

She looked thoroughly perplexed, as if I had just asked her to prove the theory of relativity.

"You are probably the least spirited person at this school," I added, not entirely sure of where the good-natured jab had come from.

"Besides you," she questioned innocently, teasing lighting her eyes.

To hide my surprise that she was more perceptive than I gave her credit for—something I was still getting used to—I gave her a look, one that warned to tread carefully.

Sighing, she asked, "Your point?"

"There's a football game tomorrow night. Are you coming?"

I was oddly anxious for her answer. I _wanted_ her to come; even more, is she did, I _hoped_ she was walking home, hoped that I could walk with her again.

"Yes."

Biting the inside of my cheek very hard and mentally berating myself at the mere thought of my reaction, I opened her book, hoping math would reinstall some rationality into my mind.

* * *

Walking into the house after school, there were three things I wanted to do before the game: shower, eat, and talk to Simon, though the last was most important today. Running up the stairs, I strode down the hallway and opened his door: we were brothers and with Simon, I hoped I had already seen in it all.

Looking up from his sketchbook, he said drily, "Ever heard of knocking? It's a new concept, but it's really starting to gain popularity."

Ignoring his veiled jab, I said, "Can you do me a favor?"

Looking surprised, he pushed away from his desk, rolling his chair to face me—chairs with wheels having always been something that amused Simon—and sat up straighter, looking at the ready for whatever it was that I needed. I wasn't one to ask for help; I preferred to figure things out on my own, so when I did—ask for help, that is—it was never taken lightly. In fact, it seemed sometimes as if it was welcomed.

"Of course. What is it?"

"Can you refrain from going behind my back and talking to Chloe about me?" I also wasn't one to beat around the bush.

Getting a hand on his wide-eyed expression, he argued, "I understand where you're coming from. And I can respect it. But I haven't seen you that moody in a while, and since you clearly won't talk to me, I thought I'd go to who I thought could be the source."

"If I say I'm fine, I'm fine."

"You've been fine for eleven years, Derek," he retorted. I wasn't sure where that had come from, but the conversation had taken an unexpected turn, one that I wouldn't allow and had to get a reign on.

Sighing and running hand through my hair, I said, "I get it. But I really was just tired. And I'd like if you came to me about stuff like that rather than asking Chloe. It involves her unnecessarily and I only tutor her after all." At the moment, I was unsure of how true I wanted that statement to be. It seemed as if it went from glad it wasn't true to wishing it was the case daily.

He said something under his breath that I couldn't quite catch.

"What?"

"Nothing," he denied, pulling himself back to his desk and refocusing on his drawing.

As I stood there, wanting to know what he had said, he asked, without looking up from his work, "Don't you have a game to get ready for?"

Annoyed, but more concerned with the growing rumble of my stomach, I walked out of his room and headed for the kitchen, purposefully not closing his door in an attempt to gain some sort of vindication, however small.

* * *

I had been standing in the sidelines, pacing nervously, for about fifteen minutes when I finally saw her, standing on the field and looking so tiny in the grand scheme of it all.

Walking up to her, I cut her off just as she was about to make her way up to the bleachers. In the time it took to cross the distance from the sidelines to her, I grew significantly less confidant and one, could not believe I even wanted to ask this and two, couldn't even remember why I did want to. It took all I had to stop rubbing the back of my neck in nervousness.

"What's up," she asked.

"Are you planning on walking home alone again tonight," I questioned.

"Yeah, why," she replied simply.

Her response and seemingly blasé attitude irritated me, almost angered me. While I had been hoping it would be the case, though more for my sake, I was mad that it sincerely was the case. Hadn't she learned after the last time? Wasn't she concerned for her safety? Or did she enjoy being targeted? Did she want to attract danger? Pushing these wonderings aside, I focused rather on the in her answer gave me.

"Wait for me when the game's over. I'm walking you home." It wasn't necessarily a question, but it was a well-intentioned command. If it hadn't already been obvious that I was concerned for her safety, it was now.

"It's fi—"

Cutting off her attempt at seeming completely self-sufficient and able—which weren't attributes I doubted in her, just ones that wouldn't do her any good if she found herself surrounded by more than one guy, hell, even one guy—I said, "It's not fine. It's indisputable. I'm walking you home."

"I can look after myself, thank you very much," she snapped indignantly.

"I never said you couldn't," I reasoned.

"It was implicit." Sometimes, I swore she argued just for the sake of arguing, for the sake of irritating me.

"No, Chloe. It was you putting words in my mouth. Why are you being difficult?"

"The only reason you want to walk me home is because you're afraid that what happened last time might happen again," she pointed out.

As socially withdrawn as I may be, I knew, just as every other person who wasn't completely dense knew, that this act of concern, one that clearly showed care, was usually appreciated. This was why thoughts of Chloe weren't easily pushed away, were what I reverted to when my mind wasn't occupied. She surprised me, kept me guessing, and I wasn't used to that. With her, I could never be certain of what to expect for it seemed that our relationship had been slightly unpredictable from the start.

"Is that a bad thing," I asked, not bothering to hide my incredulousness.

"You think I haven't learned my lesson. That I still wouldn't know what to do if it came down to that," she disputed.

"You wouldn't. You would be exponentially safer with me around. That's undeniable, but it's also beside the point. I'm not saying you're defenseless. I'm saying that I'd much rather walk you home and know you're safe than sit at home and wonder," I admitted, my frustration affecting my filter. While that was not something I had wanted to admit—ever—and wished I could take back, I was too irritated to properly care. Why wouldn't she just _comply_? Did she need me to spell it out for her even more clearly than I already had?

"Okay," she said quietly, looking down and missing the bewilderment and shock that momentarily took over my expression. Were all girls like this? Or was it just her? Was she the only one who had the power to drive me completely crazy, leave me completely confused?

"God, Chloe. Talk about being dramatic. I thought you were a 'behind the scenes kind of girl,'" I said, using the words she had uttered only yesterday again her.

She stuck out her tongue and I laughed, unable to hold onto my irritation.

"See you after the game, then," she said once I recovered. Nodding, I was turning to walk away when I paused, wondering if I should say something, express that I was glad she was here, that I was looking forward to walking her home, and then decided that she was most likely causing me to slowly lose my mind.

Walking away and trying to decipher where these sudden conflicting thoughts about my behavior around her had come from, the sound of her voice, calling my name, had me turning around once again.

As I looked at her questioningly, she said, "Good luck," and I couldn't help but smirk. There was no luck in football. It was about skill, strategy and size, all of which I had. She was in for a show and for some reason, I felt very proud that she was about to see me play.

* * *

"Hey, Derek," Liam called back from the head of lineup, stepping out of it to look at me.

In short, Liam was an arrogant, ignorant, self-important, obnoxious, vulgar jackass who walked around like he was invincible.

I looked at him warily, having decided long ago that I would only speak to him when strictly necessary.

"That girl you were talkin' with? She's a cutie," he said, smiling cockily and narrowing his eyes before stepping back in line.

My fists clenched and I had an overwhelming urge to knock his stupid, southern accent right out of him.

I did not like Liam. Not at all. However, what I disliked more was the mere thought of Liam even looking at Chloe. It made me anxious, it made me angry.

Running out onto the field, I was no longer certain of who my true adversary was, who was really the threat: the opposing team or Liam. I had a wary feeling it was the latter—knowing he exploited his invincibility and having always gotten a bad vibe from him. Suddenly, I wasn't as anxious to play, to show-off. Rather, I wanted nothing more than for the game to be over and to have Chloe beside me, knowing instinctively I would only relax when she was.

**I know I've been a bad author. I also didn't proofread this because I wanted to publish far too badly. But if there are mistakes, or if this is OOC because I've been gone for so long, I need to know. But you know I love comments and reviews, too. So pretty please, if not for me, for Chlerek, review? :)**

****Also, I will try to update weekly. Promise**


	9. Chapter 9

**Thank you, thank you, thank you to those who reviewed and to those who have continued to read and to follow after so long. It means a lot :)**

The locker room seemed louder, more crowded than usual. The team, both coaches, over-enthused fathers who took their sons' football far too seriously, were all raucous, high off our win. Testosterone filled the air, weighing down on what seemed suddenly like such a small space. The palpability of sweat and blood lessened gradually, was warped by steam to reveal various scents of after shave and body wash. It was disorienting, a sensory overload, and only contributed to my feeling of unease and discomfort, making me feel as if I couldn't catch my breath. Were there more in people in here than usual?

No. I knew there weren't. It was almost always like this, even more so after we had won. The real reason why I felt ill at ease, on edge, was because I couldn't see Liam. I had lost sight of him, and while I rationally knew he could be anywhere—on his way to a party or off to get his hands on his cheerleader of the week—that did nothing for me. What he had said about Chloe, the look of calculation mixed with a sort of glee when he said it, bothered me, made me wary, and was the reason I rushed through showering—trying simultaneously to be thorough while fast—and was now pushing my way out of the crowded locker room. Once I saw her, knew she was okay, then I could calm down, roll my eyes at my overreaction.

But still.

The way he was—intense and aggressive—the way he had looked, and not to mention Chloe's knack for finding trouble, all had me striding purposefully, simply wanting to find her and get her home.

Rounding the corner, my worries were dreadfully confirmed. She was on the stairs and he had his hand on her elbow. The fact that he was touching her, that he was close enough to touch her, made my skin crawl, had my eyes narrowing. Approaching them, wanting to be closer to him and have easier access to her before acting, I saw his grip tighten, successfully snapping any sense of calm and self-possession I had in half. If he hurt her, I would not be as rational, a truth he should shy away from for I did not regret it.

"Let go of her," I commanded, willing myself to keep my voice controlled. Equally startled by my presence, their heads snapped towards me in synchronization, Chloe looking relieved and Liam looking frustrated. I had surprised him enough that I saw his grip loosen and Chloe rapidly took advantage of that, wrenching herself free. Having steadily continued to bring myself closer to them, I was able to hold my hand out to her, helping her down the rest of the way, feeling safer that I had a grip on her. I felt even better—well, as best I could considering the circumstances—once she had stepped on to firm ground and I placed her behind me, knowing now that she was protected, safe. Because, if it came down to it I was a willing shield, and while Liam and I were pretty evenly matched, I _knew_ I could come out on top, especially if Chloe's safety was my motivation.

As Liam continued to glare at me, I took notice of Chloe's rapidly beating heart, able to feel it for she was standing so close to me. Without consciously thinking about it, I reached my hand back and took hold of hers, moving my thumb softly up and down, hoping the steadiness of the movement would counter and thus bring down her heartbeat.

Noticing this, Liam barked out a malicious, belittling sounding laugh and began to descend the stairs with narrowed eyes, his gait and swing of his arms perfectly capturing his arrogance and high opinion of himself.

"Well, well, who would've known? Derek's got himself a girl. I was just telling her that I'd be able to show her a better time than her mystery man would be able to, and now, I can say that with certainty." He was toying with me, trying to get to me, and as much as I knew this, as I repeated it in my head in an effort to remain collected, he managed in doing so nonetheless.

"Leave her alone," I said, voice tight. There was no need for formalities, to dance around the subject; he needed to know where he stood, what would be tolerated: nothing. Simplicity and conciseness were what was called for, what I needed to utilize for him to know that I would not allow any of his bullshit, would not stand for his mind games. Not when it came to Chloe.

"I don't know if I'd be able to do that. Look at her, so tiny and blonde. Just the way I like 'em." I didn't know whether it was the way he was leering at her, the flash of pleasure I saw in his eyes, or the determined set of his jaw that seemed to say '_challenge accepted_', but regardless of whichever, heavy apprehension and worry set in, the reality of the threat he presented solidifying itself, settling itself into the pit of my stomach like a lead weight. I was actively trying to take even breaths, fighting to keep my hands where they were, as they were itching towards him.

Forcing out an even breath and pulling myself up to my full height, using my size—which trumped his—to my advantage, an almost instinctual response, I said, "If you so much as go near her, you'll regret it." And he would. I would make sure of it.

Liam thrived off of others' weakness, whether it be physical or emotional. Chloe wasn't weak; from what I've seen, she's silently brave. But she was also at a clear disadvantage when stacked up against quarterback, Liam. He needed to know, however, that if he intended to make her prey, to pull her into some sick game of cat and mouse—which I knew he did with a sinking certainty I wished I didn't possess—I would be standing in his way.

And I wasn't going anywhere.

Regarding me, the thrill of a challenge, the desire for control, the irritation and rebelliousness all clear in his eyes, he finally looked away after he realized that I would not budge, that there was no room to intimidate me and that he would not win this battle of wills.

Chuckling to himself, he ambled past us, a quarter of an inch away from grazing my arm, his intent to goad me. Just as I was about to take a relief-filled breath at his departure, his whisper of, "For now," ripped away my remaining equanimity, shattering the careful handle I had had on my emotions. His murmured words catalyzed an unexpected reaction—for the first time, in a long time, I felt afraid, not for myself, but afraid for Chloe, for her safety and well-being. So afraid, in fact, that her heartbeat was no longer the only one I felt, a rapid rhythm against my back. I was now painstakingly aware of mine, beating hard and heavy as possibilities of what could come tore through my mind, succeeding in deepening the fear that was made worse by the reality that it was not irrational.

Chloe was a target. _His _target. And I was the only thing standing in his way. How badly did he want it, want _her_? How capable was I, of all people, to protect her? And, at the back of my mind, a thought too distracting I had to push it away for now, how far was I willing to go to protect her? I already knew the answer, an answer that brought on another, new wave of fear, still not for myself, but _of _myself.

**R&R, please! (I did update rather quickly, after all.. :p)**


	10. Chapter 10

Readers and reviewers, you are all, I will say once again, amazingly amazing :) I greatly appreciate the support. Also, a big thanks to Mrs. Felps-Kalamack-Reynard (3) for beta-ing this for me-her sharp eyes were very helpful!

The cold night air, which seemed to have been suspended by Liam's imposing presence and chilled threat, descended. It settled and nestled itself comfortably around us, and served as the perfect backdrop as his implicit warning rooted itself deep in my mind, lending way to a wave of panic.

He wanted _her._

Chloe—small, innocent, well-intentioned Chloe who, regardless of her strength of character, was defenseless against Liam—was now, essentially, his prey.

_He _wanted her.

Disturbing, immoral, selfish Liam—with a single-minded determination that would be admirable in anyone else and an appalling disregard for everyone but himself—was the danger whose intent was to target Chloe.

He _wanted _her.

This reality needed no accompanying explanation. Why he did, I didn't know. What he wanted to do _exactly_, I wasn't sure—nor was I in the right frame of mind to even begin to consider the possibilities. What I _did_ know was that the thought of her at his mercy—the image of him towering over her, having cornered her—catalyzed an anxiety that threatened to block out all else. What if I wasn't there? What if I couldn't protect her? The consequences of such possibilities were daunting. So much so, I chose to avoid them.

Back to the point. The simple fact, no matter the inflection, held the same gravity whichever way, entailed the same alarm and increased heart rate. I had gotten here just in time. I had seen him tighten the grip he had on her, could picture the slip from the unaffectedness he usually carried himself with, to reveal an insatiable desire to have his way, no matter anything, or any_one_, else. What if he had—

I was jolted back to the present as I felt pressure against my chest, sending an odd sort of humming through me that I felt travel through my veins.

Looking down, I met Chloe's blue eyes, filled with concern. _Of course_ she would be concerned for me. _Of course. _Looking over the rest of her in assessment for any other damage, I was satisfied and set to the task of discerning whether or not my sinking suspicion was true: Trying not to think about my hands on her, I placed one on her torso for leverage as the other reached for the zipper of her jacket, intent on finding out whether Liam had left any physical reminders of the altercation. Too late I realized that I hadn't voiced the purpose of my essential undressing of her, and that, most likely, she would not want my hands on her after what had just happened. But I wasn't exactly ripping her jacket off her and she seemed perfectly calm—I moved slowly, for good measure, however. I wouldn't stop now—I _had_ to know the extent of the damage that had been done, see it for myself—nor could I without looking completely inane.

Zipper undone, I maneuvered my hands so one would support her elbow as the other took her arm out of the sleeve it was confined to and carefully rolled it up, mindful to be gentle. As the bruises came into view—my suspicions confirmed—my grip on her tightened involuntarily and I close my eyes momentarily to regain my mental faculties.

He had left _marks _on her. She was _hurt. _And as important and alarming as this latter was, I couldn't seem to focus on it entirely. For a few lengthy moments, I was overcome with thoughts of what I wanted to do to Liam. How, if given the chance, I would cause him as much, if not more, pain that his remnants on Chloe had caused me.

"It's fine." Her voice was what interrupted my thoughts this time. "They're just bruises. They don't even hurt that much." Was she attempting to _defend _him? To explain away his actions? "I—"

I cut her off, having heard enough, aware of the textbook denial she was probably experiencing.

"They're not _just _bruises, Chloe," I said, eyes snapping open. She _must _be aware of the severity of the situation, _must _know what this meant.

Taking a silent breath, making an effort to collect myself, I asked what I dreaded to know and yet, _had_ to know.

"Did he touch you anywhere else?"

"No."

Letting out a breath I hadn't known I was holding, I continued, "If he so much as _looks_ at you twice, you need to tell me." I would not make the mistake of minimizing the situation, which would essentially leave Chloe vulnerable and be seen as an invitation for Liam to try to trap her once more. No. It was vital to remain vigilant.

She nodded sharply, but there was a visible shift in her gaze, a seeming sudden distance from the present. I was witness to a sort of panicked turmoil that steadily took over her expression. It was as if the night's events, the implications of this encounter, had finally caught up to her and were now settling themselves into her mind, finally cracking the impressive self-possession she had managed to hold onto. She looked properly scared. And while I was glad that she was aware of the danger, fear was not a feeling I wanted her to continue on with. Her anxious expression was not one I wanted her to wear. Not while I was in the picture.

"Chloe," I said, only continuing when I had her attention. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you. Okay? I won't let him hurt you."

She looked unconvinced and while I wanted to drive my point home, erase all doubts of my promise from her mind, she stepped closer to me, preventing me from doing so.

"W-what am I going to d-do? Go to administration?"

The ignorance of those not on a sports team—I had forgotten about that blissful unawareness. It was appalling how much the school had invested in sports. Most of all, in football. All the equipment, fundraising, away games, because our team was strong. What was even _more_ insulting was that those who had an interest in how our school ranked nationally—in essence, administration, faculty, and parents who donated horrendous amounts of money—thought that our football glory traced back to Liam, was because of him. There was not one person on a team. Hell, Liam wasn't smart enough to strategize properly, when it came down to it. He was a fine example of a primitive alpha male: his only concern to come out on top. And his means? Brute strength. And yet, he got all the recognition while other players—who I was equally unable to respect but could not deny their abilities—remained unacknowledged. This was probably because Liam's father was a crucial donator of the aforementioned ghastly amounts of money. And because of these football intricacies, Liam walked around like the cocky, smug, invincible son of a bitch he was.

Paraphrasing this to Chloe—hand clenching in the process and enlightening me to the fact I had also, unknowingly stepped closer to her—I maintained my original position regarding her safety.

"But I meant what I said, Chloe. I won't let him hurt you."

She seemed to relax unconsciously and her gaze softened, the panic that had been there before slowly retreating—she knew I meant it. But I saw something else flicker in her eyes, something eerily close to an argumentative glint.

"You shouldn't be looking out for me all the time," she said, sounding as if she wholeheartedly believed she was being perfectly reasonable.

Lips poised to elaborate, I interjected, "Can't I just get a 'thank you'?"

"Thank you," she said sassily, eyes never leaving mine. God, she was such a little smart-ass.

"What do you want me to say? What else do you want from me," I questioned, feeling irritation begin to encroach on my collectedness. I did not understand her. Shouldn't she be grateful? Couldn't she just accept that me having to look out for her—not even having, but not minding, even _wanting_—was the way things were? That they weren't going to change and the sooner she accepted that, the better?

"That's just it. Nothing. I don't want anything else from you. In the month that we've known each other, you've done more from me than almost anyone I've ever known. And you just shouldn't—"

She was rambling, going on about principles—convoluted principles that didn't apply because they were unassociated with my own bizarre desires to keep her safe.

"Chloe," I said sharply, hoping a no-nonsense attitude would quiet her. "Will you please, for the love of God, just _shut up_ and be complacent?" Her jaw dropped, mouth forming a small 'o'. Continuing, I said, "I know that sounded rude, but frankly, I don't care. I needed to get the point across. Chloe, you're not going to win this, so the sooner you accept it, the better." Ineloquent, but at least there was no room to argue. She was stubborn, but so was I. She wasn't going to win this, and deep in her eyes, I saw that she knew that.

Attempting to maintain _some_ dignity, she said, "If you ever tell me to shut up again…" She trailed off, probably unable to think of a threat but wanting me to think that it was simply too terrible to utter. Fighting off a smile—the idea of Chloe threatening anybody, especially me, being laughable—I said, "Won't ever happen again."

Silence fell upon us as we both looked down; her gaze sweeping the ground around us while mine fell upon her; the top of her golden head and her surprising proximity to me. As I realized this—that we were both _extremely _close to one another—it was suddenly all I could think about. She seemed to be grazing the length of my body, from mid-chest down to me feet, without touching me at all. It was maddening, inexplicable, and yet, I wanted more. It felt as if every nerve ending that she was almost barely touching was alive, laying anticipatorily in wait, itching for something more, more concrete, more immediate. I—unsurprisingly, if I were being honest—didn't want to let her out of my sight, didn't want her to go home, didn't want to have to back up and put distance between us.

Relying purely on instinctive reasoning, I said her name quietly, not wanting to startle her, not wanting to risk her jumping away. Looking up at me, I asked, "Are you going to be home alone again?"

She nodded and I could see both wariness and anxiousness in her eyes.

Unsure of where I was going with this—and where the courage to voice it had come from-I asked, "Do you want to go home?"

"No," she whispered, voice shaking ever so slightly.

She was so small, so good, and the fear that had crept its way into her voice sounded wrong, unjust, on her. It was a feeling I wanted to erase. I didn't want her to be afraid, especially knowing I was going to be around, and I wished there was something I could do to reassure her, to once and for all make her okay again.

She looked up at me suddenly, blue finding green, and it was as if something was guiding me to her, trying to pull me closer to her. It wasn't as if I didn't want that—didn't want it so badly that, if I thought that my nerves were tingling before, that I had been intensely aware of her before, I was sorely mistaken—but I couldn't allow it. It was presumptuous and, more importantly, I knew I wasn't a source of comfort, knew I was ignorant on how to be such.

Without warning, she broke our eye contact, leaning her head on my chest. The strength I had been expending to stay in place, exactly where I was, crumbled in face of the physical contact and I let out a tension-filled breath, acquired during the long moment I had been trying to reign in my hormones, or whatever it was, that seemed to be commanding me to close the distance.

She looked up at me once again and, this time, it was she who, metaphorically, pulled me to her. She seemed to be pleading with me, wanting not just the assurance of her future protection, but wanting to feel safe _now._

Whether it was because I was weak, or because I was a teenage boy, I caved, though my eyes never left hers, wanting to be able to gauge he reaction. I brought one hand around her lower back, setting it comfortably on the modest slope right above her lower body, as the other hand indulged a desire I had been harboring and went up to her hair, as soft as I had imagined it would be. Running it down the length of her hair, I continued down the length of her torso, able to feel the humble indents of her ribs, until it snaked around her side, meeting my other hand.

I was hardly breathing and I couldn't think—not properly or sanely, at least.

I had last been hugged when I was ten, a gesture having come from Kit when a gang of boys had accused me of being riffraff after having seen me in a park with him and Simon. But I honestly couldn't remember the last time _I _had hugged somebody.

_Still _looking at me, she brought her hands around me waist, but not before they skimmed my obliques.

And that was that.

I was overwhelmed with the opposing feelings to continue to look into her blue eyes or to look down and make sure she hadn't concealed matches in her hands. Selfishly, I guided her head to my chest once more, reveling in wonderment that, despite our differences in height, she seemed to _fit _there.

Was this a hug? As insane as it sounded, I doubted that it was. I had seen other people hug—a quick, short gesture that seemed to be the now standard from of greeting or farewell. Hugging did not, from what I had seen, involve slow, deliberate movements that toyed with people's sanity. I resisted the urge to check my pulse, convinced it was either dangerously close to that characteristic of a heart attack or had stopped altogether.

I had to stop this, had to reassume control of this situation before it got out of hand—out of hand being standing here all night, which I didn't doubt I could do.

Tightening my arms around her, wanting to imprint the feeling of her against me for it probably wouldn't happen again, I took a breath before letting go and stepping back. Though I had lost her touch, I would not be deprived of her company, not for the time being. She didn't want to go home, not yet. Spinning her around, I kept my hand on her lower back—I was a soft-willed teenage boy—as I lead her through the parking lot towards my car.

"Where are we going," she asked, with barely suppressed curiosity.

"To get something to eat." The usually crowded diner would be practically empty, the town's youth and its most popular customers all out and about, celebrating our win at one party or another. It would be the perfect spot to get her refueled while maintaining peace and quiet.

* * *

Walking into the house, I was greeted by dimness, the only light on the main floor coming from the kitchen, where the light was on and the moon filtered through the back doors.

"Derek," my dad called from the kitchen, only slight uncertainty in his tone.

"Yeah," I answered, hovering around the steps that would take me up to my room. No such luck.

"Come here."

Sighing, I trekked to the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe and crossing my arms as dad turned in his chair to face me.

"It's late," he started.

It was twelve fifteen, which was late for me. But he was probably getting to that. "It's an hour and fifteen minutes before curfew." Simon, Tori and I all had the same curfew, though I was the only one who had both yet to break it and yet to need it—I didn't go out much.

"_And_ I texted you," I added. Texting seemed pointless to me and I disliked the loud, harshness of the sound of voices over phones, but I relented when necessary.

"I know, I know. But you never go out, even after games. Well played, by the way," he finished, shooting me a smile identical to Simon's.

Smirking, I nodded in gratitude. "So, are we—"

"Not quite," he interjected, his expression taking on a calculating quality.

Puzzled and slightly unnerved by his gaze, I waited in silence for him to continue.

"What'd you do tonight?"

"Just a grabbed a bite to eat."

"For three hours," he questioned suspiciously.

My eyes fell to the floor for a moment, and when I looked back up, he was wearing a victorious, smug smile.

"Who were you with," he asked offhandedly, taking a sip of his coffee for good measure.

Sighing, I answered, "Chloe."

"She's the girl you're tutoring, right?" He knew fully well she was the girl I tutored; he was just trying to milk this as much as he could, enjoying that he had found a way to make me squirm.

My unresponsiveness made his smile grow.

Controlling his expression, he said, "I'm sure she's a lovely girl, and if you'd ever like to have her over or needed to—"

"No," I interrupted quickly. Chloe did _not_ need to witness our little band of misfits in action nor would I subject her to the teasing that would undoubtedly accompany her visit. But this was hypothetically speaking, because why would Chloe have a reason to come to my house? She wouldn't. "It's fine. She's fine. She won't be coming over." I wondered dimly if my coherence would suffer any time her name was simply brought up.

"I'm simply saying that if she _were _to ever come over," holding up his hand at my opened mouth, he went on, "you would have to abide by the same rules as Tori and Simon: doors are to remain open and the second floor is off limits."

Mortified and no doubt looking like a fish out of water, I turned to go, trying to save face and leaving my father's smiling face behind me.

When I had reached the stairs, he called, "Is she as pretty as Simon made her out to be?"

I could hear the teasing in his tone and ignored him, making my way to my room. It was times like these that I was convinced that my dad was an adult-sized adolescent, and that he and Simon conspired behind my back for ways to tease me when they could. It was however, good-natured, and I couldn't, in good conscious, be irritated—or, at least, remain so for too long.

Wired from the night's events, keyed up from my time with Chloe, I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep, so I set out to distract and calm myself, laying my homework for the weekend on my desk and working my way through it, finally finishing around four—inane English having taken the longest—when I was tired enough that I knew my thoughts would not keep me up.

The rest of the weekend was spent productively as I did chores and hung out with Simon, thoughts of Liam and thoughts of Chloe taking turns occupying an important portion of mind space. Unfortunately, my thoughts of Liam only got so far, his true motives for deciding to toy with Chloe—she was not his type, despite his claims—remaining unclear. The only conclusion I had established was that he was scum I had to keep an eye on, a reality I had already been half aware of. And so, I was left with thoughts of Chloe. I replayed Friday night over and over in my mind, at first replaying it for the sake of reliving it and then, when I could do that no longer, going over it in strenuous detail, trying not to remember the night in its entirety, but bring back every moment. And, at some point, when I had apparently taken it upon myself to twist reality, the facts and actual happenings began to change ever so slightly, as would the evenness of my breathing when I did so. It was enough that by the end of the weekend, I was convinced that I should be committed.

* * *

Monday morning, as I was putting dishes in the dishwasher, anxious to get to school, Simon interrupted my train of thought, one that I had accepted and decided not to attempt to push away at some point on Saturday.

"Are you _smiling,_" he asked incredulously, eyes wide and brows up in disbelief.

"No," I snapped.

Had I been smiling? Had I done so before? And if I had been, than at what? My thoughts of her had blurred together, into one, and I couldn't pull up an exact memory.

"Dude," he said, chuckling, "you were totally smiling. Second time in two weeks."

As I was about to push past him, dad walked into the kitchen, took in Simon's smile and my defensive stance, and raised his brows in question.

"Derek must have a fever. I just caught him smiling. To himself. _Again,_" he added unnecessarily, sounding cheeky.

Ignoring their shared, knowing look, I brushed past Simon, only pausing to grab my keys.

* * *

As I walked down the hall, my intent of stopping at my locker and then heading directly to class was forgotten as I saw desperation personified at Chloe's locker once again. The kid irritated me, and he probably irritated Chloe, too, but she was simply too polite to ever admit it or put a stop to his unwanted advances. As I approached them, I reasoned that it was not jealousy propelling me forward, but rather the desire to do her a favour—she, of all people, deserved such a thing.

Deciding that the sooner he got the hint, the better it would be for all of us, I placed myself in front of him, effectively blocking Chloe from his view. She didn't even have it in her to look appalled.

"What are you doing," she asked, gracing me with a smile.

"Saving you from the boy who cannot take a hint." I could feel the boy in question practically _vibrating_ with curious energy behind me.

She laughed and as I bit the inside of my cheek, I gently pulled her away from her locker, letting her elbow go as she fell into step beside me.

"So how was the rest—" she had begun to ask when the sight of Liam scared her into silence, her unfinished sentence hanging in the air. Almost as if sensing us, his eyes slid away from the person he was talking to, first taking a moment to leer at Chloe before his gaze rose to meet mine, narrowing when it did. He wore a mix of irritation, gleeful competitiveness and wholehearted determinedness to affront any and all obstacles. Glaring daggers at him, I moved closer to, and behind, Chloe, placing my hand on her lower back and keeping my hold firm as I guided her into the classroom. But before going in, I looked Liam's way, wanting to shoot him a departing glare, only to catch him still examining me. And it was when he threw me a mocking, predatory smile that it all fell into place: He wanted Chloe, yes. But that wasn't all there was to it for, in the grand scheme of things, it was not only her he wanted to hurt, it was me, too. And the more damage he did to her, the more damage he seemed to know would be done to me.

This newfound proximity with Chloe—that I both wanted and thought was required—was only adding fuel to the fire and with heavy regret, I was faced with the bleak reality that the only way to keep her safe, was to keep her at a distance.

**R&R, please :)**


	11. Chapter 11

**Anyone who's stuck with this, and has kept reading, I thank you so much. You don't need to hear the usual excuses. I'm sorry, hopefully this makes up for the lack of updating.**

By the time Friday rolled around, I was—if I were being completely, unflinchingly honest—pretty miserable. Without my knowledge, Chloe had become a big part of my day-to-day routine and the sudden loss of her company was jarring. What made it worse was that I seemed unable to rationalize my emotional state. Before I had known Chloe, I was fine. I didn't want for anything, didn't feel like anything was missing. I wasn't particularly overjoyed, or anything as melodramatic, but I was fine. Now, though, I found myself craving her company and deeming my days as unmentionable because she was no longer a part of them. And I didn't know whether I craved her presence because, as human nature goes, I wanted what I couldn't have, or because I simply missed _her_, everything about her. It was confusing—if I was fine before, why couldn't I be fine now—and in a nutshell, it sucked. Furthermore, the _cherry_, was that, for the life of me, I could not stop thinking about the feeling of her in my arms, about—however dangerously indulgent and ridiculously hopeful it was, I wanted her there again. As days progressed, grew increasingly awful as I did pathetic, my resolve would weaken, and by the end of the day, I was prepared to seek her out. I didn't care if she was mad or upset or dismissive. I could deal with all of that, was prepared to deal with all of it, because dealing with it meant talking to her, and that's all I wanted to do. But then I would see Liam in the locker room, or pass him in the halls, and my shaky resolve would immediately reaffirm itself. The connection was clear: when I was with Chloe, Liam went out of his way to make his presence known, to confirm his threat. But now that I had controlled the contact I had with her, he kept his distance, only throwing a few more smug glares my way than usual. Though, while I knew that my instincts had been right—he wanted her to get to me, in the end, for I was a threat to possible scholarships that could be offered to him—that if I wanted her safe, I had to continue to stay away, it didn't make doing so any easier. I simply had to resign myself to the reality that I was either pathetic, crazy or bound to a constant irritated, bleak disposition until Liam backed off, which, as the days passed, I wished fervently for more and more.

* * *

Friday night was warmly welcomed, on my part. It was a relief to know that I wouldn't have to walk the halls for two days ridden with inner turmoil. Yeah, I still wouldn't be able to see her, but at least I wouldn't have to see her and know that I couldn't approach her. Apparently, the situation had garnered enough desperation that this distinction was now possible.

I was sitting in the kitchen finishing up my homework when Simon walked through the doorway, about an hour later than usual.

"Hey," I said, as he still had yet to make eye contact.

"Hey," he replied, facing the fridge as he opened it. His voice sounded off, and not just because it was rebounding off the wall of the fridge. It sounded as if he were forcing steadiness into his tone.

"Why are you home so late?" It was an innocent question, it truly was. Simon usually liked to get home around four on Fridays so he could do whatever he did before dinner and be ready to go out right after. Today, however, it was almost five.

"I was just hanging out." He was still facing the fridge.

He grabbed a juice box and left, without another word or glance my way. Piquing my curiosity was his unusually slow ascent of the stairs—I could hear each and every slow step he took, an anomaly for Simon, who was usually a flurry of motion, stomping and running his way up and down the stairs in a jagged blur.

Something was up and I was curious, morbidly curious, and while I wanted to know _what _it was that had Simon acting beyond strange, I decided to wait this one out; after all, after so many years of knowing, I knew that he wasn't capable of keeping quiet for long, at least when it came to superficial things.

* * *

As I was setting the bowl of mashed sweet potatoes back on the table, Simon finally broke his silence, coming out of his nervous, quiet stupor.

"Derek," he said, though it sounded like a question.

My gaze met his dubiously, my guard going up, and he proceeded.

"If I tell you something, will you promise not to freak out?" His words were slow and deliberate, as if he were simultaneously trying to choose them carefully while gauging my reaction. Said reaction was one of increasing panic and dread. Someone asked you not to freak out when they expected you to do just that. There were, at the moment, exactly two things that could freak me out: something having to do with Liam, or something having to do with Chloe. No one—except Chloe and I—knew what had transpired with Liam. That left her as an option, and my mind couldn't even begin to wrap itself around instances involving her and me freaking out. There seemed to be too many. What had happened? Had he done something?

"No." Beside Simon, I saw Tori pause in her movement, glass poised halfway to her mouth. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw dad set down his fork and knife.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, tension and unease blatant in his posture, infiltrating his gaze.

"The reason," he began, "that I was home later than usual today was because I was talking to Chloe after school." I remained still, making sure to keep my expression neutral all the while willing myself not to conceive conclusions to his sentence, a lot of them having to do with him asking Chloe out and her saying yes.

"She, uh, approached me actually because she had some questions—rather wanted to know—"

"Spit it out, Simon," I commanded, tired of his stumbled dance around the recounting of events.

He heaved a deep sigh, and if he didn't say something _soon_, I was convinced I'd internally combust.

"Chloe came up to me after school wanting to know about—about the accident." At this, he looked me dead in the eye. "And I told her what happened. Everything."

At the back of my mind, I registered Tori setting down her glass carefully, for once being mindful of the precariousness of the situation. I saw dad straighten and fix his gaze on me, looking concerned and apprehensive. But at the forefront was the thought '_She_ knew. She _knew,_" repeating itself like a mantra in my mind. I was tempted, desperately tempted, to ask him to repeat himself, to make sure I had heard him correctly. But to do so would be inane—I knew what he had said; my mind was simply having trouble reacting to it, still preoccupied with working through the haze created by the fact that _Chloe__knew._

Forcing myself out of my haze—pushing myself through it like it was a tangle of branches that separated a lost, crazed person from their freedom—I asked, voice low and calm, "What do you think gave you that right?"

"She just came up to me and asked straight up—she caught me off guard. But I also thought she deser—"

That was it. What I must have been experiencing was calm before the storm.

Pushing out of my chair, I stood up without a thought, fists clenching at my side. "Is that how it is, Simon?" I demanded. "A pretty girl comes up to you asking for answers and you lose your backbone and all sense of loyalty?" I was shouting by the end, but I couldn't muster the rationality to collect myself.

His eyes flashed with anger of his own, and just as he was opening his mouth to protest, to perhaps defend himself because, apparently, he had the audacity to do so, I cut him off, not yet finished. "Last time I checked, my business was exactly that: _my__business_. I would have told her myself. What's worse is that my own _brother_ did it _behind__my__back._ I know we're not blood, but I mistakenly thought what we had was thicker than sperm. I guess not." While I had begun by shouting, my voice had finally leveled out, though the accusation and embitterment were laced in my tone. I didn't even feel sorry for the low blow I just dealt him—hopefully, I could keep that off for now.

"Derek," dad warned, preparing to jump in. Simon beat him to the punch.

"_Your _business, Derek? _Your _business? Jesus, you _are _my business. Which is exactly why I told her. How dare you accuse me of disloyalty. I made the decision to tell her _because _I care about you! You can stand there and confidently say that you would have told her," he took a moment to scoff, "but let's get real, Derek: you had no intention of doing so. Probably would have tried to hide it and control the situation for as long as you could have. If you want to play high and mighty, then so will I. How can you, even for a _second_, think that keeping that a secret from Chloe is fair? It's deceitful and manipulative and you know it," he spat out, breath labored.

He was right, and I was mad at him for it, so mad. But I fought on anyway.

"Deceitful and manipulative? I have no reason to deceive _or_manipulate her. I _tutor_her, for God's sake. Which brings me back to my original point. What is it that gave you the self-entitlement to tell her? What is she to you?"

"The better question, the one we all already know the answer too, is what is she to _you?_"

"What the fuck kind of question is that? What are you _talking _about?"

Tori snorted out a deprecating laugh just as dad pushed his chair back, legs pushing solidly into the hardwood. "Derek," he warned sharply.

"Oh my God," Simon exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the hair. "Are you really that deep in denial, Derek? Really, truly? Or are you just not prepared to admit it to us yet? Because I think it's pretty clear, and that you should stop pretending, that Chloe is just some girl you tutor." I opened my mouth to interject, but he forged on, "Quite obviously, you care about her. God, Derek, you spend _time _with her. You _noticed_ her. You enjoy her company. You _think _about her, and don't even try to deny it," he warned. "And it's not one sided. She cares about you, too. _That__'__s_ why she asked, _that__'__s_ why it hasn't changed her opinion of you, and _that__'__s_ why I told her. She cares, D. Don't deem it as something else; that'll be a big, big mistake." He seemed so triumphant, so wise, and I wanted nothing more than to prove him wrong.

"When it comes down to it, Simon, you told her something I hadn't wanted her to know, and don't pretend to be ignorant of that. Nothing matters besides that; it's the basic principle of the matter." He and I could probably go back and forth all night about this, but I didn't want that. I didn't want to be in this house, didn't want to drag this out by continuing to talk about all of it. I just wanted out.

I persisted, if not to shut him down, then to convince myself of what I was about to say. "She doesn't care. If she cared, she would have respected the limits of out friendship and my privacy. There is no Chloe and I, Simon, never will be. Stop rooting for it and stop using it as an excuse or a reason. It'll just get you into more trouble." My voice held an inescapable note of finality, though also, a hint of condescension. He was glaring at me, eyes narrowed in frustration and anger and exasperation. He wanted to say something more—he never knew when to shut up. But I wouldn't give him the chance. Yeah, he was angry, but it'd be short lived. Mine would be, too. I _lived_ with him, and he was hard to stay mad at. I would just need more time.

Turning around, I strode out the doorway and up to my room, quickly changing out of my clothes into shorts and a shirt, fighting against the overwhelming thoughts that threatened to exacerbate my feelings of panic and exasperation and inexplicable fear as I focused solely on running myself into exhaustion.

Sprinting down the stairs, I halted to a stop as dad came into view, blocking my way to freedom.

"Derek, where are you going?"

"Running."

"Don't you think we should talk?" I didn't know if he meant him and I, him, Simon and I, or Simon and I. Neither option was particularly welcomed on my part.

"I think there's been enough talking for the night," I countered as I angled myself between him and the door.

He regarded me for a long moment, sighing and relenting with an "after" as he stepped out of my way.

* * *

My run, after many twists and turns and hills in the nearby forest, lead me to the school football field. Dashing up the stairs to the top of the bleachers, I finally collapsed, giving into my protesting muscles as I stretched out on the bench.

I had been right—pushing myself t physical limits hadn't left much time for thinking. But the thoughts came back with no mercy as I slowly regained my breath.

Simon had told her, and, yes, I was upset. Clearly. But it was done. Agonizing over and holding onto it weren't going to get me anywhere, weren't going to change anything. What I _wanted_ to change, what I wanted to change so badly that I thought—for a fleeting, blissful moment I thought—that I could change with sheer, solid will, was Chloe being aware of the truth. Because while I would get over Simon's—if I were being rational—honest mistake, I could never recover from Chloe knowing, _we__—_Chloe and I—would never, _could__never_, be the same. As much as she 'cared,' more likely as much as she thought she cared, as much as she claimed her opinion of me remained the same, that knowing didn't change anything, I knew it wasn't true, knew it couldn't be true. And what was she supposed to say anyway? It wasn't as if she'd tell Simon, my _brother,_ otherwise. '_Actually, __Simon, __I __can__'__t __even __imagine __caring __about __him__—__can __no __longer __fathom __it, __actually.__'_

And whatever she thought of me, whatever our relationship was—_friends, _I reminded myself for what seemed like the hundredth time—was forever changed. I was merciless, careless, unforgivably violent and deserving of the guilt. How could she not think so? It didn't matter how good she was—she wasn't above natural human tendencies.

Where did this leave us then? I wouldn't be able to look her in the, wouldn't be able to bear the judgment and fear, made worse by the fact that I had never seen the former in her expression, _ever,_and the latter had never been because of me. Up until now, I had never been a source of fear to her. And _that_ felt indescribably good, made me sometimes think that, for her, I could be good, didn't have to be menacing. But none of it mattered now. Because she _would_be scared, and I'd have to see it in her otherwise gentle, forgiving, expressive eyes, and I wouldn't be able to act the same, wouldn't and couldn't pretend that I didn't see the fear.

It finally, with that thought, sunk in that, as I had said earlier to Simon, there really never would be a Chloe and I, despite what I thought and allowed myself to fleetingly hope for in those moments very late at night or very early in the morning, when my mind was heavy but I couldn't stop thinking and because I was tired, the thoughts I usually kept at bay finally pushed their way to the surface.

And suddenly, I was mad at her. Mad because, if she hadn't gone snooping, hadn't been so _goddamned_ curious, had _respected __my __privacy_, things could have been salvaged; we could have picked up where we had left off once Liam was taken care of or dissuaded. Somewhere deep in my mind, I knew that her curiosity was understandable, justifiable. But it didn't matter. Because being mad, latching on to the unexpected, hot anger that leapt at me, was so much better, so much more comprehensible than the alternative: some peculiarity in the beat of my heart, the inexplicable, but strong sense of anxiety in the face of the fact that I had, in lack of better terms, lost her, and the bizarre fear of what she was possibly thinking.

It was that anger that got me up and propelled me forward in spite of my aching muscles and tired body, that soothed me and cleared my mind, as odd as it sounds, for I knew how to handle anger, knew where it came from and how to work with it. The other feeling, the one I didn't have a name for, but, if I were forced to give a name to, seemed suspiciously like hurt, was too confusing, too foreign, and my lack of understanding seemed like another way in which I had lost control.

* * *

No one interrupted my trek up the stairs, a wise move on their part. Tori was out, but Simon was still home, a rarity on a Friday night. I supposed dad had talked to him and I was next, but not tonight. No—they knew not to bother me tonight. Shutting the door to my room, I collapsed on the bed, thankfully falling into a deep, dreamless sleep, compliments of the past few hours of both mental and physical exertion.

* * *

Saturday, no one talked to me and I talked to no one. I left for practice and glided back into the house a few hours later. I actively stewed, however. The anger that had come to me the night before was refreshed after a night of sleep, and I was prepared for it this time, welcomed it, in fact. And the more time that passed, the more irritated I grew for I found more and more ways for which I was angry with Chloe. First, I couldn't stop thinking about her; then, she was my friend; _then_, I was suddenly her protector, worrying about her, thinking about her even more than I already did; _and__then,_ somewhere along the way, she made me trust her—the list went on.

* * *

Sunday morning, a small amount of practicality returned, and I made my way to Simon's room, knocking on the door—a custom after a fight. He opened it, gazing at me inscrutably for a moment, before stepping aside—all was forgiven. He knew I was sorry for blowing up, and I could tell he was sorry for going about things the way he did—I had seen that in the looks he had been throwing me all weekend. But neither of us was going to make the other apologize aloud. We were brothers; we got it, and that's what counted.

Taking a seat at his desk, I said, "Tell me what you told her, and don't think about leaving anything out."

* * *

Monday morning, as I was eating breakfast, dad finally decided to broach the topic, having assumed he had given me enough time. Taking a seat beside me, he said, "I think we need to talk about all of this. How you feel, why you feel that way, what you're going to do."

"We've talked about it. You heard all I had to say to Simon. I said what I meant and meant what I said. There's nothing more to say." I only dared a glance at him while saying this, not wanting to be completely rude but hoping to dissuade him with my decisiveness.

He sighed—he had been dealing with this for a long time—squeezing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger before deciding on a new approach.

"If you don't want to talk about it, fine. But I need you to listen to what I'm about to say Derek, and really listen to me: however you choose to proceed, do so with caution. I want you to truly think about your actions and weigh the consequences, both for other people and yourself, before you make a decision. Ok?"

I didn't respond, choosing instead to fight off the wavering to my resolve his words brought on—I had made up my mind last night, and he couldn't change it.

"Ok," he repeated, voice firmer.

"Yeah, ok," I mumbled, staring straight ahead, into my bowl.

He put a heavy hand on my shoulder as he got up, keeping it there for a moment before he walked away. I left the house soon after, having taken a few minutes to reaffirm my plan in my mind, convincing myself once again that it had to be done and that it was time for me to reclaim control.

* * *

"Derek, what brings you here this morning," Williams asked, smiling.

"It's about Chloe," I replied, getting straight to the point.

"Honestly, Derek, I don't know what you do, but she's come such a long way in such a short time—you should be really proud of your work. I am."

He'd make things a lot easier if he weren't so damn nice. And if he weren't making me feel so guilty.

Rubbing the back of my neck for good measure, I said, "Thanks, and her progress is what makes what I have to say really suck."

His eyes clouded over, his expression falling, and I continued. "Coach had to rearrange the practice schedule because our times were cutting into the new times the lacrosse team needs. Chloe and I tried to work it out, but our schedules aren't compatible anymore." I did my best to sound regretful—he sure looked it.

"Oh, well—is there really nothing that can be done?"

I shook my head decidedly.

Sighing, he said, "Okay… okay. I guess that's life. I mean, at least now we all know Chloe has the ability. I appreciate you guys trying to work it out on your own, and I appreciate all the help you've offered so far. If you wouldn't mind, when you get a chance, to explain your approach, I would appreciate that, too, and hopefully, we can get something from that."

"Not a problem."

He offered me a parting smile—so ignorant, so friendly—before I left the classroom, head held as I high as I could muster after such a deceit. He'd never find out, though. Chloe wouldn't protest; she owed me that much.

* * *

A couple of weeks later, having pointedly ignored Chloe the whole time, I was essentially in a constant state of irritability. I was, simply put, walking around constantly pissed off—still mad at Chloe for ruining things, mad at myself for overreacting—which I admitted I had, to myself—mad at whoever or whatever decided to propel her in my direction and serve Liam as a side, and then once again mad at myself for missing her. The anger helped keep the regret and guilt away, too.

Sitting in the library at lunch, reading up on astronomy—math and physics seemed to be my only comforts nowadays—the silence around me was interrupted by the solid sound of the door shutting. Surprised—who came in here and who would interrupt me—I glanced up, only to find the source of my weeks of anger standing in front of me, glaring as callously as a five foot tall, blue eyed blonde can. I attempted to remain aloof, not wanting her to know how big of an effect she had on me, but I was too angry. She was ready for a fight, was looking for one—it was clear in her stance. And after an interminable two weeks, I was more than prepared to give it to her. I was ready to throw whatever she threw my way right back at her. I was ready for an argument and I was ready to win.

**Again, anyone who has continued to read, thank you. The story-and I- really appreciate it :)**


	12. Chapter 12

**Um, yeah, updating shouldn't be allowed after this long. Without dwelling on excuses, I would like to thank everyone who has stuck with this story, continued to read, favorite, review and whatever else after so long-it amazes me.**

**I sat down, wrote (finally) and published. Forgive me for unediting. Enjoy :)**

I felt as the all the anger I had been trying to repress for the past few weeks came rushing back with a vengeance, felt as it tore through my body and across my shoulders, wringing them with tension. While the still rational part of my mind knew that a lot of this anger was misplaced, the more immediate part of me was still mad at Chloe, hurt that she had betrayed the trust I had put in her (which was more than I cared to admit), and betrayed whatever relationship we had by going behind, my back to find things out about me, things I had wanted to keep from her for a reason. She should have respected me enough to respect the boundaries of our friendship, which she so flagrantly disregarded.

And plus, being mad at her, right her, right now, was easy. She wasn't shrinking under the intensity of the glare I could feel myself giving her. On the contrary, with each passing second, her gaze grew increasingly defiant, her chin jutting out infinitesimally as the moments passed, and I was feeding off of it, letting her anger fuel mine.

"What do you want," I finally asked, growing impatient with the stare down.

"The silent treatment's getting a little old, Derek," she said evenly, narrowing her eyes.

As it always seemed to be with Chloe, unfortunately, I acted without much thought, and my hands went up to the table in front of me, gripping it so tightly as I pushed away that they turned white; five seconds into the conversation, I was already defensive.

"Is there a reason you've cornered me," I snapped, unable to regret the harshness of my tone as she stood there, still glaring. At another time, I would have laughed at the sight of little, blonde Chloe blocking my way, her five foot nothing stature the only thing between me and exit. Now, though, it made me feel trapped.

"I want to know why the hell I've become nonexistent to you, why you started to ignore me," she replied, tone just as harsh. I barked out a humourless laugh at the sheer incredulity of her question.

"Chloe, I know you're terrible at math, but you're not a dumb blonde. I think you can figure it out all by yourself." It was condescending and mean and a total pot shot, but in that moment, as destructive as I knew it was, I wanted to hurt her.

She threw her hands up in the air and moved away from the door, approaching me and ignoring my childish retort, letting the insult roll off of her. Irrationally, it made me angrier; angry that the source of my weeks of frustration and mental turmoil knew me well enough to know when I meant what I said and when I was just being an ass, the difference between when I was being serious and when I was trying to deflect. It seemed cruel and unfair that she had that knowledge.

"What is it about me knowing the truth about what happened that made you so mad, Derek," she asked. I could hear the exasperation in her tone—she was getting frustrated, which sickly satisfied me. At the same time, it shattered what self-possession I had left. She was frustrated? _She _was frustrated? That was fresh. I had felt frustration and more almost constantly for weeks, and after five minutes, she was frustrated? How could she ask such an inane question, and so callously, too?

I pushed out of my chair, not even giving second thought to the fact that it banged against the wall with a solid thud. Tension held me upright and rigid; I was no longer calm enough to sit.

This would be good, though. I had given her exact question quite a bit of thought, and I knew I would be able to verbalize it concisely. If she had any argument left in her afterwards, she was more stubborn than I originally believed:

"That is the stupidest question I've ever heard," I started, purposefully provoking her a little bit. "How can you ask me why I'm mad, Chloe? How could I not be angry? You went _behind_ my back—to my _brother _of all people—to find out about something that was purposefully kept hidden, that I didn't want you to know."

I had unknowingly moved away from the table and closer to her, and unconsciously let my voice rise. While I knew I had to reign it in, that I should be concerned about the task force they were most likely calling in at this very moment to calm me down and escort me from the premises, saving the poor girl they probably thought I was assaulting, I once again couldn't seem to muster up the mental clarity and rationality necessary for a little self-possession—as it so often seemed to happen, it seemed, to me, that Chloe was the only other person in the world.

"Well I do know, so there's really nothing to be done about that," she said, pointing out the obviously true, which annoyed me—both that she made the statement and that it was true, for I would admit to more than once whishing she could somehow un-know what I had done. But that was impossible, considering how she had gone about things, and thus landing us in the situation we were in, the situation she was clearly so riled up about. I was about to point out her responsibility in the animosity between us, but she beat me to the punch:

"And honestly, Derek, what else was I supposed to do? I knew about it vaguely and the more I got to know you, the more the quirks in your behavior became evident. Whenever something serious happened, something that threatened to bring us closer, you immediately backed off, pulled away. I thought the accident must have had some merit in an explanation and it wasn't as if I could have asked you." I could detect accusation in her voice, and I fought against the guilt that rose up at the accuracy of her inference.

"That's not true. You could have asked me," I said, regardless. She _could_ have—asked me, that is. I just wouldn't have answered the question.

"That's a lie and you know it," she rebutted strongly, confidently. "Are you saying I could have asked you and you would have told me without qualms, no questions asked?" I snorted, "We both know that wouldn't be how it would have gone. You either would have gotten mad and dismissed me—just like you're doing now—or you would have told me but left out important details that would completely change the tone of the story."

"And what important details are you talking about, Chloe, since you apparently are more knowledgeable about what happened than I am," I asked, my tone seeping with unadulterated acid.

Her self-assurance in her beliefs ebbed at a different anger, one buried deeper, but never forgotten. And she only thought the way she did because Simon had told her the story. But no one seemed to _get _it—I didn't know what was so hard to comprehend; I had accepted the way it was a long time ago, but everyone's reassurances and contradictions made it all the harder to live with, made me feel all the worse because they were so fervently ready to believe that I was better than I was. And it infuriated me that I actually couldn't be—better. I had put dad and Simon and Tori through so much crap, and yet they still leapt to my defense, and it would be so much _easier_ if they stopped trying to ease my guilt, because it was there, it was merited, and it wasn't going anywhere—I wasn't being a martyr; those were just the facts—and it bothered me that they doubted what I knew.

"You think it's your fault. And that feeling would have transferred into the telling of what happened," she said certainly, almost smugly.

And here she was, not getting it either. Are we not impressed with the principle that we should take responsibility for our actions? Well, that's what I was doing, and it seemed like those closest to me, those whose opinion actually mattered, couldn't see it. The entire situation was shitty, and the remorse and guilt and self-hatred came rushing back, fresh as if it had just happened, and for one terrifying moment, I hated her, hated her for bringing it back up, opening an old wound and prodding it, making it bigger and more painful for _she_ was the one doing it, Chloe, who was the last person I ever wanted to rehash this with.

"It was my fault." There was no questioning that—the kid didn't bash his own head against the ground.

"No, it wasn't," I said quietly. "It was an accident, a terrible accident, but an accident nonetheless," she answered softly.

"You weren't there." It would be so easy, so nice and such a _relief_ to believe what she was saying; endorse her sincerity and relish in the simple way she saw the situation. She saw as better in her eyes, and I wanted so badly to be better for her, but I couldn't delude myself into believing what would be a concealment of the facts.

For a moment, I forgot about my anger, overcome instead by the curiosity that often came with interactions with her. At my response, she bore a pained expression, her eyes filling with sadness, which I didn't understand.

"Did you mean to hurt him," she asked directly, reaffirming her strong set of the jaw.

"No." It came quickly, without thought. _Of course_ I hadn't meant to hurt him.

"You just contradicted yourself," she said matter of factly, seemingly quite proud of herself.

"Just because I didn't intend on hurting him doesn't change the fact that _I _did and that it's still _my_ fault." The logicality behind the reasoning was sound and indisputable.

"You're impossible," she muttered, because she knew I was right and she had nothing else to say.

"And you betrayed me," I countered, figuring that we were calling the other out.

Continuing, ignoring her opened mouth, I asked, "Is there a reason you're here besides wanting to discuss something Simon already told you all about." Their encounter still made my fist curl.

"Derek, I know you think that I went behind your back and discussed your personal matters with Simon, but that's not how it is. I _needed _to know what happened and Simon was the one person I could go to who would give me the unabridged, unbiased version. I was _going_ to tell you," she said, nothing but the truth in her tone. I _knew_ she wasn't lying, but things seemed rather black and white at this point, and a part of me thought that maybe, things would be better this way, for the both of us, in the long run.

"I can't trust you anymore," I lied coolly and collectedly. It was bizarre; I was without question made at her. But I knew she wasn't malicious, knew in some inexplicable way that, if she had known the way this all would have played out, she wouldn't have gone to Simon in the first place. And because of these unquestionable realities, I still trusted her. She was, at the same time, the last and only person I wanted to see—yes, I was being stubborn about this and gripping onto my anger for reasons I didn't have the energy to analyze, but I also knew, though would never admit, that a large factor in my consistently black mood was the fact that I wasn't talking to her.

"Well then, I can't trust you," she said simply.

_What?_ I almost felt like laughing—almost.

"You're ridiculous. How is it that you've turned this around and suddenly, I'm the untrustworthy one? I've done _nothing_ to justify that."

She stepped closer, now almost right under me, and narrowed her eyes. Her proximity caused a momentary break from reality as, in my mind, one hand went down to her waist as the other smoothed out her brow. Her words, however, snapped me back into reality.

"I can't depend on you. I can't trust you to always be—to be accountable."

"Are you calling me unreliable," I asked in clarification.

"That's exactly what I'm saying," she replied without hesitation. And for the first time, there wasn't just frustration and exasperation in her voice. She was mad.

"Please, enlighten me." I couldn't help the sarcasm; I was consistent, I knew.

"What happened between Friday night's game and Monday, when you started avoiding me, which wasn't the first instance of you doing so? Friday night, was Friday night," she went on after a slight hesitation. My own mind went back to the night she was referring to, and I fought against another mental glitch.

"And Monday, I no longer existed." My heart rate accelerated slightly as I grew mildly nervous. I had no defense—at least none that I wanted to share—against that.

"And now, because of one mistake, because, according to your twisted standards, I've put one foot out of line, we're not friends anymore. You completely cut me out of your life without any warning."

_That _was explicable, but she forged on: "And the way you did it too. Honestly, Derek, I thought at least you had a little more integrity than that. But apparently, I was wrong."

I just looked at her.

I didn't _want_ to be mad at her; hated not talking to her. But I was terrified of how things would change now that she knew. I'd rather have things end shittily now than to let her back in only to be met with the reality that she couldn't move past it. That would be infinitely worse.

Sighing tiredly, she looked away from me, squeezing her eyes shut and rubbing her temples.

Taking a deep breath, she said, "If you—if you hate me, if you're not able to forgive me, fine. I am sorry that you found out the way you did, that I had to find out the way I did, but there was no other way. I screwed up, but forgive me for having believed that I shouldn't be condemned for it. Just know that you're not allowed to do this though, Derek. You're not allowed to be the one who controls the relationship, who can adjust it to his every mood. That's not how it works—not with friends. But if we're not friends anymore, then at least I know I tried."

Her words tore through me, actually paining me. I could see the tears in her eyes, see how badly she wanted me to contradict her, to jump in and say _anything_. And I wanted to, wanted to so badly. And when she turned away, defeated, it took everything I had not to grab for her and stop her from leaving.

But it would be better this way. I wasn't who she thought I was, and I wouldn't be able to bear her realizing that.

I stood there for a good three minutes, one hundred and eighty seconds, hating everything, my black mood coming back with full force.

I couldn't believe I had let things go so far, get so complicated, and yet I had. And where had that gotten us? Both hurt, thanks to me.

But she couldn't think I hated her. She had to know.

On the other hand, I hadn't contradicted her, and, maybe just for one more chance to have one last peaceful interaction with her, I decided I had to at least make sure she knew she was wrong about that.

Quickly gathering my things, I left the study room and made my way out of the library, pushing through the solid doors.

And then, as if knowing something wasn't right, I slowly looked to left, registering the horrible situation that was playing out in front of me.

The doors finally shut behind me, and both of their heads snapped towards the sound, both of them taking me in at the same time.

Through her tears, I could see the relief.

Liam—who would have been too close were he on the other side of the country—smiled maliciously, looking quite pleased with the turn of events.

I'm pretty sure we all knew I was trying to telepathically drive Liam into the ground.

He laughed harshly, and then bent in towards Chloe, whispering something to her. I felt myself stiffen and my fists clench.

He straightened, said something else to her, threw another sick grin my way, and then ambled down the corridor, leaving the two of us alone.

She was rightfully scared, but as my eyes snapped to her, I was beyond relieved that I was here, that she was okay.

She regarded me for a long moment, looking spent, worn-out and exhausted, before she turn and ran down the hall, leaving me alone to regret my idiocy and how big of an ass I was. And as much as I wanted to run after her, there was something more important I had to do first.

* * *

Walking through the locker room, I was on a mission. I wanted to be in and out. I did not play games.

Seeing him, thankful no one else was around, I went up to his locker, and, without giving him time to even glance my way, grabbed him by the collar and pushed him up against it. His eyes widened momentarily at my uncharacteristic behaviour: I did not rise to provocation, and he knew that. But he needed to be set straight. And I wasn't afraid of what I would do—I _knew_ what I was here for, knew my strength and my limits in the situation.

"Stay. Away. From her," I murmured, glaring into his soulless dark eyes.

He said nothing, only stared back defiantly, but I could see that I had shaken him up, and he broke our eye contact first. He knew who was in control here, what his chances were.

I let him go, not looking back, and made my way to my car.

My heart was racing, and my nails had left marks on the palms of my hand.

I hit the steering wheel, afraid I would have to replace it after these past couple of weeks, before sagging against it.

For the first time in what felt like forever, I was at a complete loss for what to do.

**Even though I don't deserve it, I appreciate some R&R :)**


End file.
